Torn
by That Buggy Girl
Summary: [Side B fic] Sometimes, those among us who seem the most well adjusted have the biggest problems. As Michel's self destructive spiral continues, Free and Yuki become more and more concerned...[COMPLETE]
1. Prologue

**Title:** Torn  
**By: **Misha Chaos  
**Series:** Weiss Side B  
**Genre:** Angst, romance, etc  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings:** Self-mutilation, shonen ai  
**Characters/Pairing:** mainly Michel, Free and Yuki  
**Summary:** Sometimes, those among us who seem the most well-adjusted have the biggest problems. As Michel's self-destructive spiral continues, Free and Yuki become more and more concerned...

-----

"You weren't focused. You didn't pay attention. You sat there, and didn't hear, didn't see...refused to acknowledge the signal! If not for Ken, this entire mission would be shot. All because of _you_."

Harsh words can cause any one to recoil, especially when the person they are aimed at is already in a fragile state of mind. The body will flinch away as if shielding the mind and emotional core from the blow; the head will bow in shame. It takes a hardened mind to shrug off such blame and the young of the human race are usually none so hard. Tears; shame; guilt. All are part of the packaged deal that comes with accepting blame.

At two weeks shy of fifteen, and also the youngest and most naïve member of the team, Michel was no exception to this generality.

At the hardened tone of Aya's voice, the young man had flinched, gaze dropping to the floor. He was shivering; miserable. He knew he'd messed up and Aya's harsh reproach only made it that much worse.

He was vaguely aware of Free interrupting the reprimand with a soft interjection of "Aya...please...he knows." Every one else was simply silent, probably staring at him, gaze accusing. Ken and Yuki were both spattered with blood as a result of Michel's failure to perform his part in the mission and Chloé had been glaring at him since the incident had occurred only an hour before.

He couldn't look at any of them; just stood there with his head bowed. It was his fault; all his fault. If he had only eaten before they left, like Free had asked him too…If only…Everything wouldn't have been so fuzzy. His mind wouldn't have been such a haze. He would have been able to focus; to participate effectively. Yuki had nearly been killed; every one could have been hurt. His fault.

Had he looked up, he would have seen Aya and Free glaring at one another, locked in a wordless dispute. The room crackled with a heavy, oppressive energy and the silence was becoming overwhelming.

He felt a body shift nearer and judging by the shoes it was Yuki. Since the day the American had patched up his attempts at self-mutilation, the boys had been closer and talked more often, but he didn't think he could handle Yuki's brand of compassion at the moment.

"I'm sorry!" He blurted to no one in particular, his voice sounding loud and shaky in his ears. He hated how childish he must have sounded; hated the tears in his eyes; hated -**hated**- himself for letting every one down.

Yuki was about to say something when Michel suddenly bolted from the room, dashing up the stairs to the apartments above the shop. Free took off after him instantly, Aya winning the childish glaring match by default.

Free was only a second too slow, as Michel's door was slammed and locked in his face. He grabbed the knob, rattling it desperately; who knew what Michel was doing to himself in there.

"Michel! Open the door!"

"Go-" There was a muffled sound somewhere between a sob and a choked-off cough "-away!" followed by a series of thumps and something that sounded vaguely like a drawer being opened.

"Michel…" Free rested his head against the door, one hand still wrapped loosely around the knob, "Please. Don't do this again. You promised…"

"Go away!" The blond shouted at Free through his door. He was hunched on the edge of his bed, left arm bleeding from a shallow cut he'd already carved into the skin. Yuki had found and thrown away most of the sharp implements hidden around Michel's room, but he hadn't found the penknife taped to the top of the nightstand's drawer. "Just…go away…"

Another cut, followed by another and another until his arm was a bleeding, torn mess. He had to -had to- hurt himself now so tomorrow he could smile. His tiny body shook with each gasping sob, tears and snot mixing in a trail down his face, pooling above his upper-lip and dripping down his chin.

Finally, exhausted, he let the knife slip from his fingers. It landed with a dull thud on the carpeted floor, the sound barely registering in his mind. Not bothering to change out of his dirty mission clothes, the young man curled up in a tight ball, clutching his bleeding arm to his chest.

It was only a matter of time before he cried himself to sleep.

Out in the hall, broad back leaned against the door, sat Free. He was staring down at his hands in his lap, ears ringing with the muffled sounds of sobs and hiccups reverberating from within the locked chamber. Michel's agony chaffed his heart and he longed to take the boy in his arms; tell him everything would be okay. But Michel had isolated himself, barring entrance to his room as if to say "I neither want nor need you."

Free sighed. Michel was proud and stubborn, and -while those qualities were sometimes admirable- the man was worried. For the past couple of months, his young companion had seemed out of sorts. Yuki had managed to skim the surface of their teammate's problems the night he caught him slicing up his legs in the bathroom, but no amount of coaxing and reassurance (or bullying, as the case sometimes was with Yuki) had gotten either of them any real answers.

The sounds from inside the room had ceased, but that didn't quell the worry creeping through the pit of his stomach. It was possible that Michel had simply fallen asleep. Or there was the chilling possibility that he'd hurt himself badly enough to leave him unconscious, a thought Free tried to push from his mind as soon as it entered.

Free had no intention of leaving his post outside the room until he knew Michel was okay, whether it took all night or the boy got up to use the bathroom at some point. He toed off his sandals, trying to get comfortable.

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 1

It was dreary and grey when Yuki awoke the next morning. The sun was making a failed attempt to break through the clouds and dim light pooled on his bed, filtering in through the blinds.

The American rolled over on his stomach, fingers scrabbling on his nightstand in search of his glasses. He hurt. His entire body ached, which was not an uncommon occurrence the morning after a mission. Propping himself up on one elbow, he slid his glasses up his nose and yawned. Time to get up and make himself presentable. Mission or no, he still had school.

The dark-haired boy rose, stretching and scratching his stomach through his tee-shirt. He hated mornings. He hated school. Why couldn't he just stay in bed?

"Because," a voice in the back of his mind echoed, "Aya expects you to go to school and you would never disobey Aya."

Right. He ran a hand through his unruly hair and turned back to his bed. The rumpled comforter looked so warm and inviting, while the scene outside his window promised only a damp, chilly October day. He made a half-assed effort to tidy the bed, tossing the pillows back where they belonged and pulling up the blankets.

Then he turned towards his closet.

There was no speculating over what to wear. Yuki and Michel attended a private school -Saint Justin Martyr School for Boys- which required they wear the same uniform everyday: brown plaid trousers, a white button-down shirt, light blue tie and a navy and tan sweater. In warmer weather, the sweater could be exchanged for a vest and the boys were allowed to wear any footwear of choice. Yuki preferred a well-worn pair of navy Converse All-Stars, while Michel opted for brown boots.

Having showered after returning the night before, Yuki began to mechanically pull on his clothes. He hated the uniform. His school in New York had been one of several public institutions in the neighborhood and he'd worn nothing but jeans and tee-shirts for the duration of his enrollment there. Alison hadn't cared what the children wore, so long as they were attending school.

In a state of half-dress, the spectacled boy padded out of the room to wash his face and brush his teeth. His hair was a lost cause; it would do as it pleased no matter what he did to it, but he did need to perform the rest of his morning ritual.

Free was gone from his post outside Michel's bedroom door, the blanket Yuki had covered him with neatly folded and out of the way against the wall. He could hear the scuffling sounds of Michel getting dressed and was in the middle of brushing his teeth when the slightly-smaller blond burst into the bathroom, comb in hand.

Michel was in a similar state to Yuki. His shirt was un-tucked and he was wearing only one sock. His hair was damp and he smiled a greeting at Yuki as he ran the comb through his unruly blond curls.

"G'morning, Yuki. Did you sleep well?" He questioned. Then, without waiting for a response, he plowed on, "I'm sorry about last night. I wasn't feeling my best. Probably should have stayed behind, you know? It won't happen again."

Yuki spat his toothpaste in the sink and looked up at the younger boy. Michel **seemed** okay, but he **had** locked himself in his room the previous night, not even allowing Free in. "Don't worry about it." He turned on the water, absently rinsing his toothbrush, "You didn't, you know, hurt yourself last night…did you?"

Michel was silent for a moment, his hand stilling, the comb tangled in his hair. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, then slowly pulled the comb through the snarl in his curls. "My arm," He replied casually, as if he were talking about the weather, "But it's okay. I patched it up this morning."

"Michel!" Yuki groaned, "It is not 'okay'! I don't know how long it will take for you to understand that…" Michel couldn't seem to get it through his head that hurting himself was not acceptable. "Free slept the entire night outside your door, didn't he?"

"Yes. But I don't understand why." The blond picked a few stray strands of hair out of the teeth of his comb.

"He was worried about you!" Yuki was starting to get exasperated.

"He doesn't need to worry so much. He's climbing up walls over nothing. I'm fine." That said, the smaller boy padded back out of the room to finish dressing.

-----

Free was seated at the kitchen table, a mug of tea clasped between his hands, when Yuki wandered in for breakfast. The teenager took one look at the man and knew he'd hardly had any sleep, if the dark circles beneath his eyes were any indication. Yuki stared at him for a moment, watching as Free peered down into his mug as if divining all the answers to the most puzzling questions of man. Then he made his way over to the cereal cabinet in search of a suitable breakfast.

"Michel says you're wasting you time worrying." He commented as he pulled out a box of Lucky Charms, "He says he's fine."

"He's not." Came the quiet response.

"I know." Yuki set the box on the table and stretched upwards, fetching himself a bowl from a shelf both he and Michel had trouble reaching. He fished a spoon from a drawer and the jug of milk from the fridge, wrinkling his nose -skim; it was the only kind Chloé would drink- when…

"Tuck your shirt in."

Ah, Aya was up, of course.

"Why bother? I'm just going to pull it back out again the second we leave." Yuki sighed. Aya could make him go to the damn private school. Aya could make him wear the stupid uniform. Aya could not, however, force him to wear it properly. He would leave his shirt un-tucked, tails hanging out from the bottom of his sweater. His tie would remain loose and the top button of his shirt undone. As for the hideous plaid trousers, well, nothing could be done about them. Yuki had learned long ago to simply grin and bear it.

"Tuck it in." Aya was busy at the stove, his back to the table, preparing his own tea. How he knew Yuki hadn't, for once, tucked his shirt in was a mystery to the teen, one he didn't suppose he'd ever solve.

Mumbling under his breath, Yuki set his bowl and the milk on the table and began stuffing his shirt into the waist of his pants.

It was at this time that Michel made his appearance in the kitchen, his entrance not at all as grand or exuberant as usual. He padded in, silent, neatly groomed and somehow looking far better in the damn uniform than Yuki ever could. "Good morning." He said pleasantly, retrieving his own bowl and reaching for the Lucky Charms.

"Michel…" Aya began, but the little blond cut him off.

"I'm sorry, Aya! Truly, I am. I had no excuse for my failure last night and I promise it shan't happen again. I wasn't feeling my best and should have requested to stay behind, but I didn't. It was my fault; I accept the blame." Michel chattered, spouting off roughly the same speech he had given Yuki, sounding almost as if he had rehearsed what to say.

Aya stared at him a moment while Yuki and Free exchanged a complicated look. The two had decided it wasn't their place to inform Aya, Ken or Chloé as to what Michel had been doing to himself since it hadn't affected his performance on missions, prior to the previous night. They had felt that between the two of them they could handle it, but Yuki was beginning to suspect they were in way over their heads.

"It had better not happen again." A sigh escaped Aya's lips as he turned back to the tea kettle, a sure sign that the topic had been closed. He knew that, given the opportunity, Michel would keep talking and hoped that his body language alone was enough to shut the boy up.

Michel took the cue and settled himself at the table, sloshing milk into his bowl and digging into the sugary bits of cereal and freeze-dried marshmallows. He wrinkled his nose as Yuki started peeling a banana, then busied himself making hot cocoa with the water left in the tea kettle.

"Did you both get your homework done, or do either of you need a written excuse for your teachers?" Aya questioned as he seated himself, sipping from his mug.

"I got mine done yesterday," Michel chirped, "when we got home. It was easy, just a couple math problems and some reading for literature."

Aya glanced at Yuki, who remained silent. The boy knew that mission or not, his work would not have been completed. Yuki was intelligent, but he hated the English school system. Too many tests, too much reading, too many annoying people in his classes. His classmates liked to rub it in his face that, not only was he a Yank, but he was a poor Yank as well. He didn't have parents who came to open houses, didn't get picked up in a fancy car. He had an after-school job, something that the school forbid, but Krypton had intervened and he and Michel had been allowed to attend the school and work in the shop. They were probably the only people in the whole damn place who didn't have rich parents and they were duly teased for it. Yuki found a smug satisfaction in knowing that, between himself and Michel, they earned far more money as assassins than those punks would ever see in their lives.

"I'll write you a note this time." Aya's cant was all too familiar at this point, "But I will be supervising as you do your homework tonight."

Yuki nodded, finishing his breakfast and taking care of his dishes. He went to gather up his books, stuffing them in his standard-issue, over-the-shoulder school bag, and trotted back in the kitchen just as Aya finished writing the promised excuse. He stuck the slip of paper in his pocket while Michel rounded up his own things and the two set off for school.

-----

The walk the two blocks from the underground to the campus was made in silence, a rare and somewhat unusual occurrence in itself. Michel usually rambled on about classes or homework or anything else that crossed his mind and Yuki usually only half-listened as he didn't often care. He wasn't quite sure yet if Michel was some one he'd classify as a friend, but then, he wasn't quite sure he'd ever had any one he'd truly believed to be his friend.

"Yuki…?" There was a hint of hesitation in the Irish boy's voice and Yuki turned to find Michel gazing up at him through haunted green eyes.

"Yeah?" He blinked behind his glasses. Up until a couple months ago, he hadn't known Michel could be so serious.

"I really, really am sorry…You could have been terribly hurt because I wasn't paying attention." His voice nearly deteriorated at the end of the sentence, but he managed to steel his emotions.

Yuki blew out a breath. "I'm fine, Michel. Really, it's no big deal. I've come out of gang fights worse than that, so don't go beating yourself up over it." What he really wanted to do was tell Michel how worried he was. The smaller boy's face was slightly pale and he looked as if he hadn't been getting enough sleep. He also appeared, if possible, thinner than usual. Yuki tried to remember if Michel had been eating properly; he had poured a whole bowl of cereal that morning, but how much had he actually eaten? He would have to talk it over with Free when they got home. In the meantime, he would make sure Michel ate lunch.

As they passed through the school gates, Yuki took a step closer to Michel. There were clusters of boys here and there on the yard and they had no problem with pestering the tiny blond. Yuki himself was no longer the subject of direct taunting, due to an unfortunate incident his second day of school which resulted in a boy from an old-money family finding himself in a dustbin while Yuki found himself -joined by a very displeased Aya- in the Headmaster's office.

Michel, on the other hand, was still victim of verbal and occasionally even physical abuse, provided Yuki wasn't around to protect him. The American teen found himself wondering idly (for the umpteenth time) why they weren't just transferred to another school, but he knew better to ask. Saint Justin Martyr's was the best school in the area and Richard Krypton wanted nothing but the best for his men.

As he ushered Michel towards the school, he glared menacingly at the gaggles of boys, daring them to say anything nasty or make a move towards his companion. Michel might have been annoying at times, but he certainly didn't deserve cruel words from the other students. And they certainly found a never-ending list of reasons to torment the poor boy - his height, his accent, his nationality, his femininity, his alleged homosexuality…In Yuki's opinion, these rich bastards were far worse than anybody he'd known back in the hood.

There was one other person at the school who stuck up for Michel: Betsy Ebert, the guidance counselor. Ms. Ebert had intervened on more than one taunting session in the hallway between classes and the fact that, no matter how many times she informed the Headmaster of Michel's poor treatment, nothing was being done to stop the bullying was beginning to get on her nerves.

Yuki, however, did not count Betsy Ebert as an ally. Rather the opposite in fact. She was always calling Aya and telling him that Yuki wasn't working to his potential; that he had gotten in another fight or his homework was turned in late. It was Yuki's firm belief that it would have been better if the woman didn't meddle in their affairs; she had never lived like they did, so how could she possibly be of any help?

"Hey." Yuki paused where they would be separating to head towards their individual homerooms, "Be careful, okay? Don't go hurtin' yourself or anything. If you have a problem, come find me or talk to your teacher or something." He jammed his hands in his pockets, staring at the wall.

Michel smiled, touched. This, he knew, was Yuki's way of expressing concern. "I'll be okay." He replied softly, resting a hand on Yuki's arm, "But it's sweet of you to worry."

Yuki felt his face heat up. "I'm not worried!" He snapped, a little pissier than he meant to sound. He instantly regretted his tone, afraid that his companion would think he really was angry about what happened during the mission.

But the blond simply smiled again, patting his arm. "I'll see you for lunch, yes?"

The other boy nodded, a small, half-smile tugging at his mouth, "See ya," then the two parted for the morning.

-----

Michel's science teacher had made the mistake of seating the blond near a window. When he didn't care about a subject -like science- he would stare out the window and his mind would wander. And it always inexplicably wandered to the same subject, whether he liked it or not.

Free. His mind always settled back on Free, no matter what course it took when he began to daydream. The man's presence in his life could be considered paradoxical at best - he encompassed everything Michel both hated and loved.

It had been confusing, at first, equating the person who killed his parents with the person who had carried him to safety that same night. He hadn't wanted to believe it the first time Krypton told him; he hadn't been able to wrap his young mind around it. That man…That man who had come like a thief in the night had stolen his parents' lives. But he had also stolen Michel that night. He had stolen him away from an inevitable fiery death. "All because," KR had said, "they hadn't been ordered to kill the child. You, Michel. He hadn't been told to kill you."

Growing up, the boy had been confused. Should he hate Free for taking away his normal life; for kill his parents? Or should he worship him as the hero he had originally seen him as when he pulled him from the house? Krypton told him time and again that he could only answer those questions himself; that he had to find his own truth.

But it was so damn hard.

He had spent the better part of eight years pondering over whether or not he hated the man. It was the fateful day they went on the mission to rescue Free that he finally found truth in himself. His answers had come in that split second when Free -pumped full of drugs and not at all conscious of who any of them were or really what the hell had been going on- had made the choice to embrace rather than kill him. He had remembered…

The hate had slowly ebbed away over the weeks following the incident as Michel tried his best to live up to his vow to always be Free's friend. He had promised and he wasn't about to break that promise, especially since Free had needed so much help relearning English after his ordeal and who better to teach it than one of the native English speakers on the team? There were other limitations that needed to be worked around as well and through this roll reversal, Michel finally made peace with the circumstances of his life. Hating Free would not bring his parents back. Hating Free, who had done precisely as he had been ordered to, -something Michel was now able to understand- would not change a thing.

Besides, it was so much easier to love the man instead. The man who he later learned had been secretly watching over him all those years was such an enigma. Unraveling the mystery of Free only furthered to endear him to the youth. Curious by nature, Michel couldn't help but want to know all he could about this man. Their relationship had formed of tragedy, through both the murder of Michel's parents and the capture and experimenting on Free, but their friendship had blossomed out of the mutual affection that grew between them.

Since then, Free had become a constant fixture in Michel's life; that one point of stability that anchored him. He used the man for a sounding board when he was upset, a resource if he had questions about something, sometimes even as a pillow if he fell asleep on the couch. For the past eight years, Michel had lived and breathed Free and that wasn't going to change anytime soon. Only lately…

Lately, the thoughts and daydreams had been rambling off into a different direction. As Michel got older, his hormones began pushing at him, telling him that maybe that rumor about his sexuality wasn't so far from the truth. He had loved Free for so long; it was easy to believe they could work out something more than they had, that they could slide into a relationship that wasn't quite so platonic. Weren't they, after all, already each other's happy ending?

He had kissed Free, once. It had been a clumsy, inexperienced kiss which the older man neither encouraged nor rejected. It had left Michel confused - Had it meant anything? Or was it something of no consequence? Things hadn't changed between them and the moment played through the little blond's mind over and over again. He wanted to ask Free what had gone through his mind at that moment, but was afraid to hear the answer. There was such a difference in their ages, it seemed ridiculous of him to assume that Free would ever think of him that way. He was still, despite his upcoming birthday, only a child.

"Conrad? Mr. Conrad!"

At the sound of his name, Michel started suddenly, trying to focus on the teacher, who was looming above him. He glanced around for a brief second, flushing at the smirks and satisfied looks on several of his classmates' faces. He looked at the board, hoping it would give him a clue as to what the teacher had asked about, and then looked back down at the top of his desk. "I don't know the answer, sir."

"Maybe if you paid attention, you wouldn't have this problem, Conrad." The man glared at him warningly, then turned to the rest of the class, "Now, who knows the correct answer?"

Michel sighed, staring back out the window and trying to fight the shamed flush that had spread across his cheeks. He had a strong urge to ask for a bathroom pass just to get out of the room, but he didn't think he'd be permitted to leave. Besides, Yuki had told him not to hurt himself and he didn't want to let Yuki down again.

He shook his head softly, looking to the board. There were a lot of important looking definitions up there. Allowing himself another sigh, he picked up his pen and started writing. It was going to be a long morning.


	3. Chapter 2

It had started raining sometime in the early afternoon and Yuki found himself frowning at the dark, ominous clouds as he waited for Michel after the final bell rang. Despite the dreary way the day had dawned, the American hadn't thought to bring an umbrella and even the hood on his jacket would do little to protect him from the torrential downpour that fell from the heavens. He sighed. The two blocks from St Justin Martyr's to the underground would feel like eternity.

"Sorry I'm late!" Michel pushed his way between a couple of other boys, looking slightly out of breath. "I got held up after my last class." He didn't bother telling Yuki that he got "held up" trying in vain to scrub an obscenity off the door of his locker. These sorts of things seemed to be happening with greater frequency. There was no point in worrying Yuki more and besides, he needed to learn to fight his own battles.

"It's okay." Yuki replied casually, "I don't particularly want to go out in that anyway." He jerked his head towards the door, indicating the pouring rain.

The blond followed his gaze and his face fell. "I didn't bring an umbrella!" He frowned, "We'll get soaked."

"I know." The older boy sighed again.

"I can call Free." Michel started digging in his book bag for his cell phone. "He can come get us."

"Don't bother." Yuki pulled up his hood, frowning. He hated when his glasses wound up spattered with rain, "Free and Chloé have a shift right now. Aya's doing deliveries and I know Ken was going out on his time off."

The smaller boy pouted, "Free would still come get us though…"

"I know he would." Yuki snapped, "But he's working and you know how Aya'll get if he leaves during his shift. We'll manage fine."

Michel wilted slightly at his harsh tone and he instantly felt bad. "Do you want to wear my hoodie?" He offered, "You might not get as wet and I don't mind…"

"No. No, thank you; it's okay. I was going to change out of my uniform anyway." The blond tried to force a smile, "We'd better get going, or we'll miss the next train."

Yuki looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Let's make a run for it then."

-----

Ten minutes later, two soggy, rumpled boys were waiting for the train. Michel's damp hair had clumped into curls that fell in his eyes and Yuki was trying unsuccessfully to dry off his glasses. The pair of them were soaked through and the American teen was half hoping his books and papers had gotten too wet for him to do his work that night. He knew he couldn't be that lucky though and he shifted uncomfortably, pushing his dripping bangs off his forehead. Beside him, Michel sneezed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Yuki glanced down at him. The little blond looked miserable. He was shivering and must've been freezing.

"Yuki?" Michel blinked up at him from behind wet hair, his face flushing pink, "Do…do you think I'm a fag too?" He fidgeted nervously, twisting at the strap on his bag.

Yuki was silent for a moment. It was very important that he answered this question in the right way. He didn't want to cause Michel to feel the need to inflict any more injuries on himself. He also didn't want Michel to think he was a homophobe or anything, because he wasn't. "It's not really any of my business if you are gay or you aren't…But if you are, I don't really care." He offered a tentative smile, "You're still my friend, either way."

He was relieved to see the smile that crossed Michel's face and not at all surprised when the little blond practically tackled him in a hug. He patted Michel's shoulder awkwardly, not sure what else to say.

"Thank you, Yuki." Michel murmured, his face pressed against Yuki's shoulder. He sounded a little choked up and the older boy wasn't quite sure what else to do.

"And don't say 'fag,' Michel. That's a rotten word. So are all those other names they call you." Yuki gently pried the other boy off him, "I don't want hear you call yourself any of those things, okay?"

Michel nodded and both boys fell silent. Yuki pondered over what to say next when a thought suddenly occurred to him. "That fucker Thomas hasn't been after you again, has he?" He demanded, "If he tried anything, I'm going to mess him up good."

"No, Yuki…I was just…" Michel stammered for an explanation, but fortunately, he was saved by the train pulling in, just on time. Looking relieved, he stepped forward, dragging Yuki along by the hand.

-----

Michel stared out the window as the train hurtled towards home. How could he have asked Yuki that? Now he was going to assume the worst things and no matter what, that was bad. "Stupid; stupid; stupid," that little voice in the back of his mind accused, "You are a stupid little boy." He clung to the pole, eyes falling shut, head bowing. Now Yuki would think he was queer and he wasn't even sure himself if this were true or not. Just because he had kissed Free didn't make him…Did it?

He pondered over this for a moment. Never had he ever thought about another man the way he thought of Free. So maybe it was just Free then? Maybe he wasn't really gay…But still. The fact that he had a crush on the person he considered his best friend in the world was bad, wasn't it?

Still deep in thought, he followed Yuki off the train and through the deluge to the shop. He was running on autopilot as he mulled over his current situation and failed to notice Chloé and Free's greetings as he passed through the shop to go change. He plodded up the steps leading to the apartments and padded into his room to change out of his sodden uniform.

As he slowly undressed, he was vaguely aware of Yuki calling through the door for him to bring his wet things to the laundry room and he would dry them. He might have responded; he wasn't sure.

Michel paused on his way to his closet, looking in the mirror above his bureau. He was naked from the waist up, wearing nothing but his briefs and his socks which, thanks to his boots, were still perfectly dry. He studied himself for a moment. No wonder Free had been worried. His skin was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He glanced down and was only half-surprised to realize he could see his ribs through his skin. As small as he already was, his pants were starting to get sort of loose in the waist.

It appeared that everything at school had been wearing down on him more than he'd thought.

He frowned at his reflection before moving towards the closet. While he was buttoning up a pair of blue plaid pants, he decided it would probably be a good idea to redo the bandages he'd put on his cut up arm. They'd gotten damp through his sleeve and were covered in navy fuzz from his sweater.

He winced as he slowly peeled of the bandages, the tape getting caught in the fine hair of his arm. Despite the injuries his line of work provided, he'd never been one to just rip off any form of bandage (incidentally, he hated when Ken wound up the one to treat his wounds) because his childish side shirked away from the intense, split-second pain which came with it.

All of the cuts had scabbed over nicely and he wondered absently if they would leave scars. Not that it would really bother him; he already had numerous fading scars crisscrossing on his thighs and spanning his stomach. It was more that he'd been careless and any scars on his arm would be easy to spot.

Still shirtless, his pants sliding down and resting on his hips, he padded across the hall to the bathroom to get fresh bandages. His appearance didn't seem any better in the bathroom mirror; there was no denying he'd that he'd not been taking proper care of himself.

Once his arm had been efficiently bandaged, he wandered back across the hall to find himself a shirt. His damp hair still hung in his eyes and, at this point, he was shivering. Why was it so cold in his room? He glanced around for a moment, green gaze coming to rest on the window, which was open. Why…? Ah yes. He'd opened it before he left in the morning in hopes of purging the room of the coppery smell of blood. His blood. The room had reeked of it after his frantic efforts the night before.

He padded over to shut the window. There were bloody fingerprints on the windowsill, dried to a brownish color. He felt his stomach turn once. No matter how many injuries he received during missions, no matter how many times he hurt himself, he would never get used to the smell and sight of blood.

He lowered the window and paused for a moment, bracing himself against the frame and watching as the rain ran in little streams down the glass. The endless gray of the sky; the damp chill of the air…Both suited his mood perfectly. To say he was depressed was putting it lightly, but he knew he would have to face his housemates with a smile. He simply **didn't** get depressed.

He pulled a grey-blue sweater off a hanger in his closet and pulled it over his head. The bulky knit of the garment easily concealed the fact that he'd been losing weight and would keep any one from noticing and asking questions he didn't have the energy to answer.

Fully clothed once again, he gathered his moist uniform and headed for the laundry room. Yuki's clothes were already in the drier, but he pulled it open and tossed his in with them. The drier banged shut and chugged to life again. He stood there for a moment, listening to the steady _grum grum grum_ of the machine, trying to decide what he wanted to do until dinner time.

Aya would be out running deliveries and errands for another hour or so. Ken had the day off and, as Yuki had said, had left for the afternoon. Chloé and Free were scheduled to work all day and Yuki was to join them. The two boys switched off afternoons when they got home from school and today was Michel's free afternoon.

For the first time in a long time, he found himself with nothing to do.

Michel wandered into the kitchen and began hunting for the things required to make hot cocoa. He was still shivering, even with the warmth of his sweater and needed something to warm himself up.

Still on autopilot, he set the kettle on the stove to boil. He scooped a couple heaping spoonfuls of cocoa mix into his favorite mug and, knowing no one would catch him, clambered up onto the counter in search of a bag of marshmallows.

While he waited for the water to boil, he studied the mug. It was thick and glazed unevenly green, small flowers stamped into the ceramic around the bottom. He had made it in the spring when he and Free had ventured out to a culture and the arts festival held by one of the local museums. They'd stopped to watch the people who'd paid the fee to try the pottery wheel and, thinking it looked like fun, Michel had dug out the required amount of money, eager to create something spectacular.

At first, he hadn't been able to get the hang of it and he'd pouted as the lump of clay refused to take shape. He'd been ready to give up and admit defeat when Free had sidled up behind him, large hands covering his own small ones and showing him how to work the clay. As what later became the mug began to form, Michel had looked up at his companion in awe and Free smiled softly back down at him. It was at that moment that his heart began to flutter wildly and he felt his face heat up.

He had dropped his eyes back to the wheel, watching their hands. His own tiny hands were enveloped entirely by Free's. Some people might have felt invisible, were they so overshadowed by a figure of power. But Michel simply felt safe. Those hands…had always protected him. Always caressed his hair lovingly, wiped away tears and held him tight. He imagined himself as the clay, molded and caressed so gently by those hands. He wondered fleetingly what it would feel like to have those hands touching him everywhere and knew his face must have been bright red.

At that very moment, he knew things would never be the same.

The kettle whistled, startling him back to the present.

-----

Yuki was bored.

The shop was unsurprisingly empty. That made sense, he supposed, since there were no major flower-giving holidays anytime soon. Plus, people had better things to do than go out in the rain. Business was always far better on sunny days.

He had already rolled some of the change in the register. Already helped an old man who took forever deciding what to get his wife for their fiftieth anniversary. Already windexed and wiped down the main display windows and already watered some of the flowers which appeared to be drooping. Chloé was doing inventory in the storeroom and Free had taken it upon himself to sweep up petals that had been shed during the course of the day.

Yuki yawned. He picked up a pen and doodled on the pad sitting beside the register. He wished absently that the computer at the counter wasn't set only for business. He could have logged onto Guild Wars and completed another mission by now. It's not like the phone was exactly ringing off the hook or anything.

"How was school?" Free broke the oppressive silence by asking a question which only served to aggravate Yuki further. He would have rather inquired after Michel, who had seemed spacey as he glided through the shop, dripping on the floor, but Yuki already seemed annoyed and interrogating him about the younger teen would probably only worsen his mood.

"Sucked." Yuki muttered, "As usual." He glanced at his watch. How were there possibly two more hours of this torture? The sky was already pitch-black and he felt like he'd been there an eternity already.

"Oh?" Free prompted softly without pausing in his work. Engaging Yuki in a conversation could be tough, as the sullen boy seemed to talk even less than he did. But he was used to Michel's incessant chatter and the silence sometimes unnerved him. "Did anything in particular happen?"

"Not with me." Came the cross reply, "If you mean did anything happen to Michel, I have no clue. You know he tells me less than he tells you."

Free nodded, frowning to himself. Over the past several months, Michel had been getting more and more introverted. Outwardly, he was still the same cheery ray of sunshine, but had slowly stopped talking about important things until now…Free could hardly ever tell what his young friend was thinking any more.

"I don't think he's eating." Yuki suddenly blurted out, "He seems skinnier than normal. I mean, he is small, but he just…doesn't seem right." He fidgeted slightly, "I didn't really think about it until this morning, but I really don't think he's been eating much."

Free's frown deepened. He hadn't noticed that. Between missions and work, and combined with the fact that half of Michel's day was consumed by school, they hadn't been able to spend much time just relaxing together. By the time the shop was closed and every one had eaten dinner, they were either preparing for a mission or Michel was settling down for a night full of homework and paper writing. There was occasionally the opportunity for them to unwind together, usually watching TV with whomever happened to be in the living room. Or even better, the rare days where they both had the same afternoon off, when Michel would drag him into the London streets and then would spend the day in comfortable companionship. But those days were far and few and now he hardly even knew a thing about Michel any more.

"I know you're worried about him." Yuki continued, "And I am too. But if he doesn't start shaping up, I'm going to tell Aya and Aya will tell KR and that's bad. But whatever's bothering him or is wrong with him, it needs to go away. I'd rather see him off the team for a while than see him hurt himself more."

The older man nodded his agreement. "I shall try to talk to him." He was worried. How had things escalated high enough that Michel might have to quit the team for a bit? As he continued sweeping, his frown intensified. The team dynamic would be skewed, but if that was what it took for Michel to get healthy again, then that was what would be done. They could not afford to have another repeat of the previous night. Some one could get hurt. Michel could get really hurt. That very thought of that possibility was unacceptable.

Yuki opened his mouth to say something else and snapped it shut again when the subject of their conversation wandered into the room. Michel looked a little more alert now. He was wearing a pair of his favorite pants and a sweater and a mug was in his hand. His face didn't look quite as pale and the humidity made the curls in his hair more pronounced. "Hullo." He smiled, easily sensing that they had been talking about him. The dead silence in the shop was a sure give away.

"Did you warm up a bit, Yuki?" He asked cheerily, "I made you hot cocoa." He plonked the mug down on the counter in front of the other boy, "Thought you could use it. It's cold in here."

"Thanks." Yuki watched as Michel padded over to hug Free, apologizing for not saying hello when they had first returned home. Free simply patted his head fondly, telling him it was okay. The little blond then skipped out of the room, informing them that he was going to do his homework, then help Ken make dinner when he got home.

Yuki looked at Free over the mug of hot cocoa.

"He seems fine…" Free commented passively.

"…But he's not." Yuki concluded, brows knitting together.

The two stared at one another for a moment, reaching a silent agreement to do anything possible to help their youngest teammate. Then they both turned back to what they had been doing, a heavy silence hanging over them. The tension was broken only by a young man who'd rushed in at five minutes to closing, breathlessly explaining that he'd forgotten his wife's birthday until the very last moment and he needed something nice.

As Yuki rang up to bouquet Free had pieced together for the man, he wondered why his life couldn't be as simple as worrying only about forgetting a loved one's birthday. It really isn't fair, he mused, that we can't all be so lucky.


	4. Chapter 3

Michel couldn't sleep.

He'd gone to bed at ten-thirty, after he'd finished a literature assignment. It was relatively early, even for him, but he pleaded a headache and said goodnight as soon as he was done with his essay. He'd smiled kindly, bade every one a cheerful goodnight and stopped to give Free his customary hug, then tromped up to bed.

But now, dressed in his favorite flannel pajamas and curled under his down comforter -a gift from KR when he'd complained of it being cold in his room in the winter- he couldn't calm down enough to fall asleep. He tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, but all to no avail. His room, his bed, the darkness...It all seemed so vast and he felt very small and alone.

After he had rotated his head to the foot of the bed for the fourth or fifth time, he'd had enough. It was now one in the morning; he had to get up for school in six hours and he'd gotten no sleep.

Wrapping himself tight in his favorite knit afghan, he padded barefoot out of the room. His room was full of too many thoughts; too much would go on in his mind if he stayed there. He would never be able to subdue his thoughts enough to sleep and needed to be in the one place where he knew he would feel safe.

Free's door was never locked. Owing his life to the other members of the team, the man felt he had absolutely nothing to hide and therefore didn't bother with the lock. Michel twisted the knob and pushed the door open, peeking in. Pale light filtered into the room and he could see Free, sprawled on his stomach on the bed, sheets twisted around his legs. He wasn't wearing a shirt and his face was pressed into a pillow, his hair glittering silver in the moonlight.

The blond slipped into the room, shutting the door as quietly as he could. The fact that Free hadn't woken the second he'd opened the door showed just how much trust the man had in his young friend and it made Michel feel good. The very fact that -even in his sleep- Free could tell his presence from any one else's had always been comforting for Michel and made him feel as if he belonged in that room.

He crept stealthily over to the bed, padding softly on bare feet. This was the place where dreams and nightmares were kept at bay and, as he looked down at his sleeping friend, he began to feel soothed.

Carefully, he began untangling the sheets and blankets from around Free's legs. One small hand ran lightly along the skin of the man's back and, finding it cool to the touch, he pulled up one of the blankets and tucked Free in.

Then he crawled onto the bed, curling next to Free. He pulled his own blanket over himself, nestling into the curve of Free's side, where his own tiny body fit perfectly. One of the man's hands instinctively moved down to rest protectively on his shoulder and Michel smiled softly, feeling loved and wanted for the first time all day. He yawned, suddenly aware of just how tired he was and -knowing he would be safe the rest of the night- allowed his eyes to slide shut.

-----

Free woke, as usual, at the crack of dawn. He was only half surprised to find Michel curled in a little ball at his side, one arm tossed over his stomach. This had become something of a regular occurrence; the boy came once or twice a month to sleep in his bed. It was something that they had a silent agreement about. Neither of them ever spoke of it. Michel didn't need to explain his need for closeness and comfort any more than Free did and the arrangement suited them both well. It was, oddly enough, never once mentioned by another member of the household, despite the fact that they often saw Michel leaving Free's room in his pajamas.

The man deftly extracted himself from Michel's arms, taking care to make sure he pulled the blankets all the way up and over the teen. Michel made a slightly upset sounding noise and shifted into the warmth of the now empty hollow where Free had been laying.

Free paused, looking down at his young friend. He wished he knew better how he could help Michel, but the mystery of the teenager was a hard one to unravel. His cards had been aggravatingly unhelpful and he found himself worrying more over Michel now than when he had to keep his distance.

He checked his bedside clock. The glowing red display flashed in the dim morning light. 6:10. Michel still had about an hour before he had to get up and no one else would rise for at least twenty minutes. Free allowed himself a few more moments of observation, watching the way Michel's body moved as he inhaled and exhaled, noting that the boy's thin frame was visible even through his pajamas. Yuki was right. He did look thinner.

He ran a hand over the boy's hair, brushing it back from his face. For a while, it had seemed like Michel was getting better. He'd been talking about what bothered him more and Yuki had been grudgingly spending more time with him. The two teens were very different, however, and every one knew that Michel sometimes got on Yuki's nerves. But now, all of a sudden, he'd been slowly shutting down again. The smiles were once more becoming vacant and forced and conversation was dipping back into topics that didn't really matter.

No one could force the teen to talk and Free wasn't sure if Aya, Chloé and Ken had even noticed the minute differences in his behavior. He and Yuki spent the most time in Michel's presence and knew him far better than the others. Although…No one really knew Michel all that well. Free had been keeping an eye on him all those years, but he had been watching him from afar. In that sense, it was hard to know what was really on his mind. They hadn't been close for very long. And Yuki…Yuki might have gone to school with him and spent a lot of time with him, but they didn't really know much about one another.

Giving Michel one last glance, Free set about on his morning routine, leaving the room and heading down the hall to fetch a fresh towel from the linen closet.

It was when the door clicked shut that Michel awoke, blinking against the bright light of the morning sun as it crept higher in the sky. He was confused for a moment -what was he doing in Free's room?- then he remembered his sleeplessness of the previous night. He rolled over on his stomach, burying his face in Free's pillow. The pillowcase and sheets held the faint incense-y scent of the older man and that was rather comforting. He could already tell, due to the small amount of sleep he'd gotten, that it would not be the best of days.

Yawning, he snuggled against the pillow, trying to will himself back to sleep. The clock on the nightstand was now blinking twenty after six and he didn't need to be up until seven. Even an extra half-hour of sleep would be a blessing. He pulled the comforter up over his head to block out the sun and eventually drifted into a light sleep.

He started awake again only ten minutes later, having nearly been dragged into a not-so-pleasant dream. He hated those dreams; where everything was hazy and slow, where time stood still and he relived terrible moments over and over again. It was that kind of dream which he had sought to escape the previous night when he had come to Free's room.

He sat up, wrapping the comforter tighter around himself. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. It was around six-thirty and he knew if he did manage to fall back to sleep, he would only have more nightmares. He sighed; bowing his head, hair falling in his eyes. He wondered fleetingly what Aya would say if he asked to stay home. He was tired and didn't feel well. His arm itched beneath the bandages, a sign that the shallow cuts were beginning to heal. He knew there was no way he'd be able to concentrate on anything and he was in no emotional state to handle another day of teasing and tormenting from his classmates.

He watched silently as Free came back into the room, wearing only a pair of comfy looking pants and toweling his hair. He never ceased to be in awe of the man's physical appearance; his own tiny body and wiry frame making the vast differences between them even more obvious. Free was over a foot taller than him, muscular, radiating masculinity. Michel himself was not quite fifteen yet and he knew it was possible that he could have a growth spurt, but in his hazy recollections of his parents, he didn't remember either of them being particularly tall.

"Did you sleep well?"

The boy jumped at the sound of Free's voice, then blushed at having been caught watching him. Free still had his back to the bed, but he did have an uncanny ability to know what was going on around him at all times. He tightened the blankets around himself, staring down at a pillow. "I don't feel well." He said softly, the statement punctuated by a wide yawn. "I'm tired and I don't want to go to school today."

"I will tell Aya." Free nodded. Michel's head rose slightly and he watched the muscles ripple in Free's back as he pulled a shirt over his head. "You go back to sleep."

"I'll try." The little blond sighed, knowing it would be difficult. If he went back to sleep, he would once again be plagued with nightmares. The only way he would be able to sleep without dreaming was if Free stayed with him, but that was a definite no. There was work to be done around the shop.

"Good." Free offered him -what he had learned over the months- was his version of a smile, crossing the room to lay him back down and tuck the blankets around him. Michel managed a smile as Free's hand brushed back his hair. He was so calm. Gentle. Totally the opposite of his appearance. In moments like these, it was so easy to forget they were killers. So easy to pretend they were normal. Happy.

"Come down for lunch, all right?" Free's dark gaze met his, holding it. Captivating. Michel sucked in a breath, his heart pounding as he tried to look away from the intense stare. Got stuck. "I want you to eat something."

"I'll come down." Michel promised, willing to do anything to appease the rest of the household. He didn't feel like explaining anything at this stage of the game and if he refused Ken's cooking, there would be questions asked. Besides, he would do anything Free asked of him.

Another nod, then the man disappeared from the room. Michel watched his retreating figure, wondering to himself how they could possibly be on the same page, yet reading totally different words.

-----

Somehow, the teenager did manage to fall back to sleep, safe under the warm covers in a room of no dreams. This room had been empty longest and Michel -being somewhat superstitious- always said it was the only room in the building that wasn't haunted. It had been, after all, the only chamber in the apartment that didn't have a troubled young man residing in it. There was a time in his life, prior to their rescuing Free, when he would sneak into the vacant room with a pillow and curl up on the floor, trying to fend off the nightmares of his childhood. But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to stop dreaming.

He awoke hours later to a rather delicious aroma wafting into the room. He first stretched and then curled up tighter, not quite ready to give up the warmth and comfort of the big, Free-scented bed. He had learned early on how to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible and he wanted to get lost in the sheets; to never have to come out. He knew he would have to eventually, but the still-childish, irrational part of him wanted to stay right where he was forever.

After a few moments of lounging in the bed, he decided he'd better get up. After all, lunch did smell good and he hadn't eaten much since the previous morning. And he felt scruffy; still in his pajamas and in need of a shower.

One quick shower later, Michel was pulling on a pair of well-worn corduroys and a slightly-too-big tee-shirt. He toweled his damp hair, causing haphazard curls to spring up all over his head. He ran his fingers through the wet strands, separating them, but didn't bother with his comb. The baby-fine curls wouldn't go away, no matter what he did. He frowned at his reflection in the mirror. Frowned at the baby face, the wide grey-green eyes with their feathery lashes. Little pink lips; constant blush. Why did he have to look so much like a girl?

He sighed, pulling on a pair of socks and sliding his feet into blue tennis shoes. No one here ever really mentioned his femininity…There were the occasional teases from Chloé and Ken, but he could tell the difference between their fond teasing and the cruelty of his schoolmates.

Ken was absent from the kitchen when he finally wandered downstairs, but there was a pot simmering away on the stove. He padded over and lifted the lid, peering into the pot. It appeared that beef stew with plenty of potatoes and onions was for lunch. One of his favorites…He was touched.

There was a note on the table: _Chibi - Free said you weren't feeling too hot and asked me to make you something special for lunch. There are biscuits in the oven as well. Enjoy! - Ken_

He couldn't help smiling. Sometimes, being the baby of the "family" wasn't all that bad. Every one else looked out for him and spoiled him. At times, he resented the "chibi" nickname -it wasn't his fault he was so tiny- but he knew that was just Ken being Ken.

Michel pulled a bowl out of the cupboard and ladled himself a helping of the stew. By this time, every one else would have eaten. The shop's lunch hour was from twelve to one and it was almost one-thirty. He didn't really mind the time alone; far from it. As a child, he had spent most of his free time playing on his own and he had grown accustomed to it. He was good at smiling; at pretending things were okay. But he really preferred to be comfortable in his own world where he was allowed to be as sad and happy as he wanted.

He slid the baking pan out of the oven and carefully extracted one of the still-warm biscuits. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent meal. He simply hadn't been hungry. But this smelled so good…He poured himself a glass of milk, found a napkin and settled down at the table, tucking hungrily into the warm meal.

Lunch was good, and an afternoon spent in the solitude of the house was even better. He curled up with a copy of _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_ and spent the afternoon reading, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket.

He was almost done with the book and getting sniffley over the sad parts when Yuki tromped in, dumping a couple books on the couch next to him. Michel looked up, startled, and found himself frowning at the sour expression on the older boy's face.

"Aya asked me to bring your homework." He said crossly, "Why didn't you come today?"

"I couldn't sleep last night." Came the soft reply, "I was tired."

"So was I…But I still got up and went." Yuki huffed, "You're spoiled, you know."

Michel flushed. "I am not!"

"You are too. No one babies me when I'm tired. I still have to get up and go to school. I don't get to sit home and read bloody children's books all day long."

As Michel stared up at him, eyes wide, chin wobbling, Yuki took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had a headache and getting upset with Michel wasn't going to make it better. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean that." He sighed, plunking himself down on the couch.

"Are you okay?" The blond asked timidly. "I…I'm sorry if you think they treat me better…It's not my fault…"

"I know; I know. I'm sorry. It was just…That woman was after me about my grades again." Yuki slumped on the couch, trying to drain his body of the tension and aggravation that had been plaguing him all day.

"Miss Ebert, you mean?"

The American nodded. "It's none of her business. She should just leave me alone." He curled around a pillow, sulking.

There was a long silence. Then Michel spoke up quietly, "Yuki? Why don't you just do your work? Wouldn't things just be so much easier that way?"

Yuki frowned. "Why bother? It's not like it matters." He heaved a sigh like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, "With the life we lead, grades don't matter. It can never be normal for us. It's not some fairytale, Michel. There is no happy ending. Just blood and death and more and more sins piling up."

There was another pregnant pause. "You…don't really believe that, do you?" The tiny blond sounded almost terrified at the thought. He had always lived with the belief that they would someday all be free and happy; their debt to KR paid in full. He clung to that dream with all of his being; sometimes it was the only thing that kept him going.

"Yes. I do." The older teen's voice had a hard edge to it. "We're killers. The only way it ends is if we die."

A chill ran up Michel's spine and he hunched up smaller under the blanket. "I don't want to die. Yuki…I want to be happy again someday." He whispered, "Don't you think we can be happy? I mean, it isn't so bad as all that, is it?"

"Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?" Yuki turned away from him, picking up the remote and clicking the TV on.

Michel stared down into his lap. He knew teenagers were supposed to have it tough, but was it really supposed to be this bad? Shouldn't he and Yuki have been happily rebelling against their families right about now? Of course, he hardly remembered his family and Yuki didn't ever know his. And there simply was **no** rebelling against Aya. Yuki wouldn't dream of it and Michel respected the Japanese man far too much.

He regarded Yuki for a moment. The older boy was scowling at the television. His blue eyes were dark behind his glasses and his hair was tousled. Michel knew he had a habit of running his hands through it when he was nervous or distressed. He couldn't help but wonder at how their lives had been so similar and yet so different at the same time.

He bit his lip. Yuki seemed so upset and Michel wanted to cheer him up. There was one way he knew would make the boy smile for sure…"Yuki?"

"Hh?" The dark-haired boy grunted in response.

"Can you tell me again what it was like to live in New York?" He offered a hopeful smile, "Everything there is so fascinating."

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile tug at Yuki's lips. The city -his home- was his passion and he loved to talk about it. Michel knew the other boy couldn't be disgruntled if he had an audience to listen to one of his rambling memories of when life was less complicated, if only by a little bit.

"Did I ever tell you about Central Park?" He asked and Michel nodded, smiling slightly. He'd heard about the park a dozen or so times, but he never got tired of listening to Yuki talk about that place so close and yet so far away.

"You can tell it again. I like listening." Michel told him shyly. He lifted the end of the blanket, offering to share it with his companion.

He was granted a half-smile in return and Yuki edged closer, accepting the offered covering. Every one in the house was aware of Michel's desire for physical attention…He seemed to need a lot of snuggles. Usually, Free was the one to dish out affection to the blond, but Michel wasn't picky. Yuki was awkward about it, but sometimes he needed the comfort as much as Michel.

Therefore, he didn't protest when the other boy nestled against his side, tucking the blanket snugly around them. He simply put an arm around Michel's shoulder, inwardly grateful that he could pretend this was all for Michel's benefit, and launched into (what he hoped was) a new story. "There was this time we went to the Park and…"


	5. Chapter 4

It was a strange sight.

Yuki was asleep, slumped against an armrest of the sofa, his mouth hanging open, glasses askew on his face. One arm was squashed between his side and the back of the couch, the other dangled inches from the carpet. Michel was curled against his chest, fingers wrapped around his shirt, his legs tangled in a blanket. A mathematics text book lay open on the floor, suggesting it had dropped from the couch at some point.

It wasn't the fact that the two were asleep that was unusual. They were, after all, both boys and teenagers and the typical male teenager requires inconceivable hours of sleep. What made it odd was that they were asleep _together_. They looked so…comfortable. The boys weren't overly friendly with one another, despite Michel's attempts to befriend Yuki, and it was strange to see them in such close, physical proximity to one another.

Fortunately, Aya wasn't easily ruffled by strange things.

He watched the boys for a moment, contemplating over how their lives should have been so different. Both of them, despite the horrific things they had seen, were still very innocent. They were _children_. Younger than Omi had been when they worked together. Aya knew -they all knew, even Yuki- that no matter what happened to any of them, Michel would still be just as innocent as always. He was fourteen -_fourteen_- and shouldn't have had anything more to worry about than his school marks and spending time with his friends. He had grown up the way Omi had, trained to be a killer at a young age, and Aya cringed inwardly at the thought of the shrewd politician Omi had become. Fortunately, Michel would never travel that path.

And Yuki…Aya couldn't help but wonder if he was failing the boy. He had brought Yuki to London to take care of him and, by doing so, had made him into a killer. Although…Generally, the four adults discourage the boys from taking lives. If they could help it, the two teenagers weren't involved directly in the missions and often didn't even have to see the resulting carnage from the elimination of a target.

The redhead hesitated in the doorway; unsure as to whether waking them would be better in the long run or not. Being both teenagers and boys, they would undoubtedly be embarrassed to have been found together that way. It would probably be better to let them wake naturally. But then, they would miss dinner. And that would upset Ken, who had tried out a new recipe. It wasn't like they couldn't reheat the leftovers, but Ken would pout because Aya was supposed to be fetching the boys for dinner.

Sighing to himself -how did he always wind up with duties like this any way?- he crossed the room and bent, shaking Michel's shoulder gently. The tiny blond's face scrunched up; he apparently didn't want to wake yet, but he cracked an eye open, then blinked up at Aya.

"What's wrong?" He asked softly, a hint of worry and urgency in his voice that made Aya wince. With their lives, it was easy to assume something was amiss when you were being prematurely yanked from slumber.

"Nothing is wrong." Aya managed half a smile, "It's dinnertime."

"Oh." Now that he'd mentioned it, Michel could smell something that smelled vaguely like Indian or perhaps some sort of stir-fry…Ken must have made something spicy. He let go of Yuki's shirt, careful not to wake the other boy until he was in a less embarrassing position (not that Michel found it embarrassing to be cuddled up with his friend, mind you, but he knew Yuki would, especially since it was Aya who'd come to wake them), and began untangling his legs from the afghan.

"Yuki…" Aya moved on to the American boy, touching his arm lightly, "Yuki, wake up."

The teen grunted in his sleep, shifting to face the back of the couch. Michel stopped rearranging his hair, looking amused. It was near impossible to wake Yuki up and they all knew it.

"Wake up, Yuki." Aya shook his arm harder, almost looking ready to jerk the boy off the couch.

Yuki started awake, rubbing at his eyes with a fist and pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Uh?" He managed rather inarticulately. "Wha…?" The almost-question was punctuated by a wide yawn and Michel couldn't help giggling.

"It's time for supper." He flashed the older boy a sunny smile, rising from the couch and stretching, his shirt ridding up to reveal his bellybutton. "And it smells good."

The dark-haired boy straightened his glasses, yawning again. He hated to be woken before he was ready to wake; it always left him feeling discombobulated. He ran a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head. His neck was stiff, but that happened almost anytime he slept on the couch. He glanced at Michel as if daring him to mention that they'd been curled up together, but the blond just smiled serenely. Yuki frowned at him and he tried not to grin, knowing that the older boy was just trying to keep up his tough guy appearance.

Dinner was the same noisy affair as usual, with Chloé picking at Ken and Ken rising to the bait. Michel spent most of the meal questioning Yuki about anything important he may have missed at school. Free and Aya were their usual silent selves, observing and making sure that nothing was amiss with their strange "family." The actual meal turned out to be a spicy beef stir-fry, a recipe Ken had found in one of his numerous cookbooks and decided to try. It wound up every bit as good as it had smelled and the end of the meal found Ken and Yuki fighting for the last serving.

Afterwards, Michel, after feeling rather useless and lazy all day, offered to do the dishes, which met with an immediate no. He was about to protest when Aya pointed out that his entire left forearm was wrapped in gauze and bandages and getting them wet wasn't the best idea. Besides that, he had schoolwork to make up, as he would be attending classes tomorrow, since he hadn't seemed particularly ill at all during the day.

"Yeah," Yuki added, "I lugged all those damn books home, you better use them."

Sighing, the blond nodded, knowing there was no winning an argument with both Aya and Yuki. Besides, Aya called the shots around the house. It had been that way ever since he arrived, even though Chloé, Michel and Ken had lived there longer. No matter what any one else said, the redhead's word was always law.

So Michel wandered to fetch his things from the living room and headed up to his room to get to work. Yuki had brought his math, science and health texts for him. Looking over the notes and handouts from his teachers, he thought it seemed like a lot of work, even though it wasn't that much. He tucked the books under his arm and gathered the papers, then padded up the stairs to his room to get the work done.

It was hours later when Free headed upstairs to bed. As he passed by Michel's room, he realized that there was light filtering out of the room from under the door. It was long past the time that the little blond usually went to sleep and Free wondered if he'd fallen asleep while doing his homework.

He pushed the door open gently, peeking into the room. Sure enough, Michel was slumped over his laptop, books, papers and a chewed up pencil littering the bed around him. The screensaver flickering and a small bedside lamp were what had caused the glow emanating from beneath the door.

Free tread lightly across the room, stopping at the edge of the bed and looking down at the sleeping teenager. Michel's head was bowed, hair falling in his eyes. His chest rose and fell steadily; he appeared to be in a deep sleep. Free's expression softened. The tiny blond needed a good night's rest and he didn't want to wake him, even to get him in a more comfortable position.

He carefully extracted the humming computer from his young friend's lap, not bothering to power it down. He tucked it away next to the bed, pushing the cables out of the way so Michel wouldn't trip, should he wake for some reason. Then he cleared the text books and papers off the bed and set about attempting to rearrange the blond without waking him up.

He paused momentarily as the teenager made a sleepy noise, afraid he'd woken him. But no, Michel just curled against his pillow, murmuring something unintelligible. Free couldn't help smiling slightly. He didn't often find reasons to use the word "cute," but Michel swathed in plaid flannel and cuddled up among a pile of fluffy comforters and pillows was nothing but cute.

He stroked back the teen's blond curls, letting his hand linger, caressing his cheek. When had he become so fond of this little bit of a boy? He tried not to think of his life before Michel; that life had been so cold and empty. Meaningless. But Michel…He was like a ray of sunshine; a daffodil blooming in the midst of carnage. His generally upbeat attitude made life a little bit better for them all, but they all knew that Free held him in the highest regard. Which was precisely why the man hated to see his friend suffering, no matter how well Michel thought he was hiding it.

He pulled a blanket up, tucking the teenager in snugly. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to ensure Michel's happiness after having been the one to rip his family away from him. He had become the teen's self-appointed guardian and caretaker and was trying his hardest to make up for what he had done in the past. Looking after and loving Michel was so easy. Too easy at times. But he was far too disciplined to allow himself a single untoward thought towards the boy, no matter how cute and loving he was. _That_ kind of love was simply not an option.

Giving the blond curls one last fond pat, Free turned out the light and left the room.

-----

Physical education was by far Michel's least favorite school subject. He didn't have the build to be very good at most of the sports the PE class played, such as football, basketball and field hockey. His body was better designed for things such as track and field, swimming or gymnastics. He was lithe and, although he may have appeared scrawny, his body was well-toned, due to his Kryptonbrand training. His training had shaped his body perfectly as a track star, but he simply wasn't cut out for contact sports.

Unfortunately, St. Justin Martyr's was not the kind of school that lauded the physical activities a child like Michel was suited for and the little blond found himself yet again facing another game of football as his seventh period destiny.

He hated the locker room. Hated it with a passion. Ever since he had started school there three years prior, he had been labeled as his class' token pansy, even though he'd never given any indication of his sexuality one way or another. By his twelfth birthday, his classmates had already begun tormenting him and more often than not, the worst of the abuse came in the locker room.

Every time he stepped through the door to change into the school-issued gym shorts and the tee-shirt with the St. J.M.'s logo screen printed on the front, he would be struck with a barrage of memories, none of them pleasant. There had been inappropriate comments, groping, pinching; it was if the other boys had made proving his alleged homosexuality their mission in life.

Even though he wasn't quite sure yet if he actually was any of the things they so frequently called him, Michel knew he wasn't the only one who had the tendency. He knew who watched him in the shower; who stared at his naked little bottom as he turned his back to them, the shower spray pelting his skin. He knew who stared at him during class, undressing him with their eyes. He knew that when some of them tried to touch him, it wasn't just to prove that he enjoyed it; it was simply because they **wanted** to touch him.

He didn't understand why they couldn't just come to him as friends. If they were all gay or were, at least, questioning their sexuality, why couldn't they be friends? Why did they have to be so cruel? He assumed they were afraid of facing the same treatment he suffered through on a daily basis. If they all banded together, they could have fought back. But instead…

Yuki had become something of a protector for him. When the American had attended school his first day, all of the homophobes had watched Michel lead him to the office and had later made all kinds of comments about Yuki being his new boyfriend. The dark-haired boy, although he was accepting of others' differences, would have none of this and had promptly tossed one of the teasers into a garbage can. Although Aya had been less than pleased, Yuki had never again been labeled as gay and the verbal attacks against Michel had subsided for a few weeks.

But today…

"Hey, Conrad!" Michel flinched at the sound of his surname being yelled across the room. He could practically hear the smirk in his classmate's voice. "What are you waiting for, you bloody fag? Quit standing there and change your damn clothes."

A couple other boys snickered and high-fived their friend as Michel moved towards his locker, running now on autopilot. He had tried once to change his clothes in one of the bathroom stalls, but had learned a valuable lesson that day. Confining himself in the tiny stall had left him trapped with nowhere to go as the homophobes and haters had lain in wait outside the stall.

He quickly pulled off his sweater and loosened his tie, fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttoned his dress shirt. These clothes…This uniform. It took too long to get undressed; too long and he could feel their eyes burning into his back. He hated that feeling of knowing he was being watched; it made the fine hair at the nape of his neck rise.

He slipped his tee-shirt over his head, feeling momentary relief at being fully-clothed. Taking off his pants to put on his shorts had always proved to be more dangerous than changing his shirt and he had to give himself a moment before reaching for the fly of the plaid trousers.

He dropped his pants quickly, kicking them off and reaching for his shorts. He could feel bodies edging closer and he started when he felt a hand on his ass.

"What's your hurry, Conrad? Don't want us to see you?" The hand slid lower, a finger tracing along one of the scars on the back of his thigh. Michel forced himself not to tremble in fear or shiver at the invading, unwanted touch; willed his body to remain perfectly still. "Where'd you get all these scars, Conrad? Are they a gift from the pedophile that's screwing you? Do you like it rough?" At the word rough, another hand groped him through his underwear and he jerked at the touch, eyes welling with tears.

The hand moved again and he heard a different voice in his ear. "Come on, pretty boy…We know you like it. You can't pretend."

He bit his lip, praying to God that he wouldn't get hard. He didn't want this; didn't like this and was afraid his body would betray him. He knew he couldn't give in. That was what they wanted and expected. He forced himself to remain silent as the hand squeezed and he bit down harder on his lip until he could taste blood. Why, oh why, couldn't they just leave him alone? Hadn't they hurt and humiliated him enough already?

He had never bothered to tell any one what sorts of things happened to him. The logical part of his brain knew that, were he to tell Aya or Free, his tormentors would not face a pleasant fate. But he still had some pride and he was ashamed to admit he couldn't fend off these bullies on his own. He was still afraid that any one he told would somehow see this as his fault, even though he knew this wasn't true. But it was just…He felt so worthless; so cheap and dirty. How could any one possibly understand?

He was saved only by the teacher yelling through the locker room for the class to get their asses out onto the field and start warm up laps. He slumped against the lockers as they moved away, one of them giving his behind a slap as a parting gift. It wasn't until the room was empty and silent that Michel allowed himself to cry.

At first, he wasn't even aware he was crying as fat tears rolled off his chin and soaked into the fabric of his tee-shirt. It was when his breath started coming in little hiccup-y gasps -when he was pulling his pants back on- that he realized.

He had to get out of there.

He quickly tore off the tee-shirt, hastily redressing in his uniform, not even bothering to tuck in his shirt or put the tie on. He stuffed his feet back in his boots, fingers trembling too much to tie the laces. Tears were still streaming down his face, but he was silent now; the silence echoed through the large, cavernous room. He didn't know where he was going to go, but he had to get out of that place.

He stuffed his gym clothes back into his locker, grabbed his bag and fled the room. The halls were empty; classes had already started. He figured he'd be able to make a getaway unnoticed, even though he had no clue where he was going. He needed to be somewhere away from the campus; somewhere safe. He could worry about where once he made it out.

He peeked around a corner. There was only one way out of the building when classes were in session, and that was through the main doors, which went past all of the offices. He would have to be careful, were he to make it out without getting caught.

No one was in the lobby. He allowed himself a sigh of relief. Maybe God was on his side for once. Maybe the Devil. With his life, he could never be quite sure.

He crept past the offices, hardly daring to breathe as he hugged the wall. Pretend it was a mission and he couldn't get caught.

The sun was shining, it was a crisp autumn day and Michel was about to burst out into the afternoon sun and make his escape to freedom when a hand grabbed him from behind.

Heart pounding in his chest, he whirled around to find himself face-to-face with Miss Betsy Ebert, the school guidance counselor.

"Where do you think you're going, Mr. Conrad?" She pulled him back into the entryway and he stared up at her, face heating with shame at having been caught. She stood a good five or six inches taller than him and her expression was dour until she took a good look at him. "Have you been crying?"

He said nothing, simply stared. Miss Ebert was a pretty woman, with pale blue eyes, fair skin and extremely dark hair. She was dressed in a smart pants suit, tailored and ironed perfectly and a couple file folders were tucked under her arm. He figured she must have been around Free, Chloé and Aya's age, or maybe even as young as Ken. He'd been in her office numerous times since she'd started at Saint Justin Martyr's the previous fall, but he'd never really bothered to look at the woman before.

Her expression softened slightly and she let go of his arm and she momentarily looked lost in thought. "Michel, right?" Her voice was hesitant and he wondered if the faculty was even encouraged at all to know the students beyond a last name. When he didn't correct her, she offered a ghostly smile and continued. "Why don't you come to my office and we'll talk."

He followed silently behind her, wondering what there was to talk about. She couldn't possibly have any clue what it felt like to be the school's most harassed fag, no matter how alleged his orientation was. And she was a grown woman, not an almost-fifteen year old boy. There was no way she could even begin to understand and there was therefore no reason for them to talk.

She offered him the chair across from hers, the desk between them. He watched as she arranged herself comfortably, hands folded on her desk. Then a thought seemed to occur to her and she swiveled in the chair, sliding open the filing cabinet and pulling it out a new folder, one which, he noticed, was labeled "Conrad, Michel E."

He watched, still silent, as she studied the contents of the folder for a moment. He knew what she would find in there: Average grades except for literature, in which he excelled. Records of many days he was absent, due either to mission-related injuries or illness or even just days where he'd simply been too tired to attend. Family background; mother and father murdered when he was six. Older brother, whereabouts unknown. Taken in and raised by the illustrious Richard Krypton. Home life, stable. Permitted to work outside the school at Krypton's request. Emergency number listed as that of an Aya Fujimiya. He wasn't sure as to whether or not any information would be in there about his school experiences beyond grades and attendance; the school seemed to have a "boys will be boys" policy when it came to teasing.

Finally, she looked back up at him, meeting his gaze. "What happened, Michel?"

He frowned at her, a rebellious feeling welling up from somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Yuki was right. It was none of her business. "Nothing." He said, chin rising defiantly.

She arched a brow. "Nothing? Why were you trying to sneak out of school then? Classes aren't over for another hour yet."

"It's really none of your business, ma'am." He folded his arms across his chest, slumping slightly in the chair and staring at the ceiling. He just wanted to leave. He'd rather go back to class than sit here and listen to whatever she had to say.

"Michel, I'm here to help you." She said gently, "But I cannot help you if I don't know what's wrong."

"I don't mean to be rude, but I don't need your help." Even when being defiant, he just couldn't seem to bring himself to be mean. This woman did want to help, even if she couldn't.

"Would you like to just talk, perhaps?"

He shook his head.

"As you know, I just looked at your file. You miss an awful lot of school, Michel. Is everything all right at home?"

"Things are fine." It was a game to see who was more stubborn now. She was trying to engage him; to bait him so he would talk. He knew the rules of this game well enough. They'd all played it with Yuki or Aya at one point or another.

"It says here that you don't live with Mr. Krypton any more. Your…housemates are agreeable?"

"Aye."

"Would you like to tell me about them? You live with Mr. Fujimiya, but it says here there are four other members of the household. One of them is Yuki, I presume."

He blinked. As he had learned from Aya -and the lesson had been reinforced by Yuki- the best way to win a game of wills was the simply remain passive. Say nothing, if possible, and if not, remain noncommittal. So he kept his mouth shut, staring at the woman, expression neutral.

Miss Ebert sighed and Michel knew he had won. She looked down at the folder again. "I'll have to call Mr. Fujimiya to let him know you were trying to leave, you know."

He shrugged, giving the impression that he didn't care. But inwardly, he was panicking. Aya would not simply accept the phone call and tell Miss Ebert to send him back to class. He would leave the shop to either come get him or to berate him for trying to skip said class. Then Free would know and Yuki would be sure to find out somehow. He hated when every one knew every one else's business, because it inevitably led to questions he never wanted to answer.

So he watched, terrified, as she dialed Aya's cell number and he prayed the man wouldn't pick up. Sometimes when he was in the shop, he turned it off. But no luck; he picked up. Michel listened as the obligatory pleasantries were exchanged and the guidance counselor explained to Aya her reason for calling. After an "all right then; I'll keep him in the office until you get here" she hung up and looked at Michel. "You're to remain here until Mr. Fujimiya arrives."

He felt his heart drop into his stomach. Somehow, returning to class seemed less horrifying than facing Aya's temper.


	6. Chapter 5

**Hey every one! Thank you for all the kind comments. I promise things will eventually get better for poor Michel (I have a bad habit of torturing characters I love). **

**Since I am apparently not the only person here that's looking for Side B fanfics, I made a Side B C2 community. Everything I've found and read here is archived there, so go check it out; it's called "Further on Down the Road****." Also, if you know anything else that should be there, let me know.**

-----

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Michel glared fiercely at the clock on Miss Ebert's wall. The woman had left the office to make photocopies, telling the teenager to stay put. He slumped down in the chair, trying to shut out the incessant ticking of the clock. Other than that, the room was dead silent and the sound was threatening to consume him. He curled up smaller in the chair, hugging himself tightly. This was going to be bad and he knew it. Aya wasn't going to be happy.

He glanced around the office. It was full of those stupid motivational posters ("Reach for the moon and even if you miss, you'll land among the stars."), potted plants and university catalogues. The chair he was sitting in was relatively comfortable and her desk had that antique, worn look about it. There were a few other chairs in the room -probably for when she counseled more than one student at a time- as well as a coat rack and large file cabinet.

It wasn't all that unlike KR's office, but there was still something about it which made Michel uncomfortable. Maybe it was that he was aware that he was simply one of several hundred boys who were paraded in and out on a daily basis. Or maybe it was the niggling feeling that he didn't trust Miss Betsy Ebert. Or maybe it was that damn clock.

Or perhaps he was simply nervous over the impending Aya-doom.

Whatever it was, he didn't want to be there.

Miss Ebert came back in after what felt like an eternity and began filing things. The phone rang a few times and she scheduled parent-teacher conferences, gave progress reports or answered questions for the parents of prospective students. The whole while, Michel sat curled in the chair, staring blankly at a wall. Miss Ebert seemed to have forgotten about him. Or maybe she was ignoring him as a tactic to get him to talk. She'd probably seen many people break under the pressure and the silence.

He wasn't about to budge though. He would not give in to this woman, no matter how she tried. Michel was a tough little thing and he had his pride, even when all he wanted to do was burst into tears.

He was looking at the clock for the millionth time -was it his imagination, or was time passing more slowly than usual?- when he heard Aya talking to the secretary in the room outside the office.

Suddenly, he wished time would stop. He didn't want Aya coming into the room; didn't want Miss Ebert to speak to Aya; didn't want to face whatever Aya was going to dish out to him. He knew his "small and invisible" tactic wouldn't work on the redhead and he was going to be in trouble.

After a courteous knock and Miss Ebert's response of "come in," Aya strode briskly into the room, violet eyes immediately drawn to Michel. The boy wilted slightly under the gaze, but the man said nothing and turned to Miss Ebert. "I'm sorry for any trouble he may have caused." Typical Aya; always polite.

"He isn't any trouble." Miss Ebert rose to shake his hand. She had never met Aya Fujimiya before; Richard Krypton himself had always been the one to visit for conferences and open-houses, accompanied by his secretary. The redheaded man had a firm, brisk handshake. "I am worried about him though. He won't tell me what happened."

"Aa." Aya gave a slight nod. "Some one at home will talk to him, then." He turned to Michel. "Get your things."

Miss Ebert blinked. "Classes aren't over for another forty minutes, Mr. Fujimiya."

Aya frowned at her. "Michel would be better off at home, Miss Ebert. I trust that he would not try to leave school, unless something truly upsetting had happened to him." He looked at the teen again, "Go get your things. We're going home."

Michel jumped up quickly, giving a polite nod to Miss Ebert as he snatched up his book bag and pulled on his jacket. Then he trotted obediently to the door. It would not be wise to question Aya or keep him waiting.

The car ride to the shop was a tense one. Aya stared out the window, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Michel gazed sullenly out his window, watching the world pass by and trying to pretend he wasn't as terrified as he felt.

Neither of them spoke until after they parked. Aya's fingers were still gripped around the wheel, only not quite as tight now. "I never thought I'd get a call about you." He paused, violet gaze still focused on a parking meter as if he couldn't bear to look at Michel, "What happened?"

Michel shrank down in his seat. It almost made it worse that Aya wasn't looking at him. And the disappointment…They'd all come to expect that phone calls like that would be about Yuki. Yuki's grades were abysmal. Yuki was the one who got in fights. Yuki gave the teachers attitude. And now he was the one who had made waves, rather than Yuki, and the disappointment in Aya's tone was like a slap to the face.

Aya waited for a moment. When it was clear his question would get no response, he finally looked over at the boy. Michel was hunched up in his seat, pressed against the door as if he wanted to be as far away from Aya as possible. For a moment, the man was taken aback; he would never raise a hand to Michel. But on a closer inspection, he could see something else in the teenager's eyes. Those pale green eyes were dark with self-loathing and despair and Aya knew that -no matter how much he wanted to know what had transpired before Miss Ebert got a hold of Michel- forcing an answer out of him would not have helped. He knew; he understood all too well. If he persisted, Michel would shut down.

"I'm not going to force you to tell me." He finally sighed, "Go in and get started on your homework until your shift starts."

He watched as the tiny blond scurried out of the car, book bag slung over his shoulder. For a moment, he wondered if sending the boy off to his room alone was the best idea. If something that terrible had happened to him -and Aya suspected it had- it was not wise to let him hide himself away where they couldn't keep an eye on him.

He did, however, have other matters to attend to.

Like explaining to Free what little he knew of the situation.

-----

Michel once again ignored every one as he hurried through the shop and thumped up the stairs. He saw the odd look on Chloé's face and Ken's confused expression and wondered fleetingly if Aya had even bothered to tell them where he was going when he left. He didn't stop to find out though; just breezed through without a word.

He knew he couldn't answer any questions. The memory hadn't numbed yet; he could still feel hands touching him, could still hear their cruel words. It hurt; God, it hurt. Why him? Why did it have to be him? Everyday…Even if some days were better than others, they were all pretty much the same. Unasked for, undeserved abuse due to religion or nationality or sexuality or some other thing that shouldn't have mattered. And the hurt…Why wouldn't it just go away already? It was getting harder and harder to turn it off.

He tossed his bag down the second he entered his room, locking the door behind him. He needed to do something…It hurt too much.

He peeled off his sweater, tossing it in the general direction of his hamper. The white button-down uniform shirt followed soon after and he stood in front of his bureau, first staring at his reflection in the mirror, then down at the smooth skin of his chest and stomach.

It was a beautiful canvas, really. No one would ever see, for how often did he wander around without a shirt on? The skin was wonderfully soft and unmarred, so unlike his thighs and arms; hairless -he'd never be hairy, even as a fully grown man- and so inviting. He fully understood the appreciation for a body like his…He was like a porcelain doll. So perfect; so breakable.

And if they weren't going to be gentle with him, why should he be gentle with himself?

It was so easy now. He'd been doing it so long; he didn't even have to think any more. It was over in a matter of seconds and he stared down at the horizontal cuts, watching the blood bead through the shallow incisions. He'd been doing it so long, he could totally detach himself. There was no pain, no smell of blood, no feeling at all. Just simple bliss as he let all of the hurt bleed out.

Michel didn't know what all the fuss was about. He didn't hurt himself any more than he'd been hurting his entire life. He'd survived far worse than a few scratches and anyway, if he was hideously scarred, maybe they would finally leave him alone.

He unlocked the door and sat down at his desk to begin his homework as Aya had requested, still without a shirt. He didn't want to ruin any of the clothes Krypton had bought him or any of the tops that had been birthday gifts by bleeding all over them. It was one thing to hurt himself. It was another to hurt one of the others by ruining something they'd given him out of kindness. So he sat down to do a lab write-up and let the cuts scab over, thinking he would finish changing when he needed to go down to the shop for his shift.

He was half-expecting Aya or Free or both to come barging into his room, demanding to know what happened. It was Free's day off and Michel had no clue where he was, but he suspected the man was somewhere around the apartment still; he rarely went out without Michel's company. Aya wasn't the type to pry, he knew, but he couldn't help wondering why no one was demanding answers. Yuki was usually grilled the moment he got home after any sort of transgression. But the circumstances of the afternoon were so unusual and details so vague that he was sort of surprised that neither of them did come seeking answers.

He wondered if Aya had bothered to tell Ken and Chloé anything. They had obviously been surprised to see him march through the shop and they were, by nature, curious and nosy, respectively. Michel was pretty sure that neither of the aforementioned men had any idea what he did to himself when he was upset. Yuki had caught him in the bathroom one night when he was cutting his legs. He had told Free and Aya, of course, had somehow found out.

The lab write-up was almost finished by the time quarter of four rolled around. Michel set down his pen and stretched. He was proud of himself for working so hard -maybe he would finally get an A on something in physical science- and he felt better. Aya had looked in on him once, acknowledging his diligent work with a nod, but other than that the apartment had been fairly silent.

He rose from his seat and padded over to the closet in search of some clothes. He was still in his school trousers and his uniform sweater and shirt were still on the floor. A pair of grey slacks soon replaced the brown plaid and he pulled a white and blue long-sleeved polo shirt over his head. He looked in the mirror again. The shirt was soft, well worn and comfortable and it was lose enough that it wouldn't rub against the marred skin of his stomach.

He slid his feet into a pair of blue running shoes that had never actually been worn for running and made a failed attempt at straightening his unruly curls before padding out of the room to start his afternoon shift at the shop.

Ken took off the moment he stepped through the door, pausing to ruffle the blond's hair as he passed by. It was his afternoon for deliveries and there was a large order going to a church for a wedding the next morning. He would be busy and gone for the rest of the afternoon, meaning dinner would be some sort of takeout. The rest of them could cook well enough, but Ken's stellar cooking had spoiled them and it just wasn't the same. Whenever the brunet wasn't available to cook dinner, they always ordered out.

He watched Chloé for a moment. The other blond was working the register that afternoon and he was simply leaned over the counter, bored. But somehow…Chloé managed to make bored look good, as he did everything else. Michel had known Chloé the longest of all his teammates and he still hadn't gotten over how sophisticated and perfectly groomed the Romanian man always appeared.

Even with all the teasing he endured, Michel adored Chloé. The boy had been alone in Krypton's castle for so long that, when Chloé had arrived, he had jumped on the chance to have a friend. Chloé had been skeptical at first -Michel had only been eleven at the time. But the castle was a lonely place and Chloé had found himself with a choice: boredom or spend time with the sad little blond who's only friend seemed to be the puppy he'd acquired on his eleventh birthday.

Chloé had taught him to play chess and, although he wasn't very good at it, it gave them both something to do. They had also gone to museums and galleries together and Michel had learned more about art than he ever thought there was to know. Chloé had supported the boy when he'd expressed an interest in art and encouraged him by getting him a set of chalk pastels. They'd laughed together when they realized Michel was a horrid artist, except when it came to trees, which he could draw fairly well. Over the years, smudgy drawings of trees in various stages of bloom had turned up in all over the place, first around the castle and later in the shop and the rooms of the apartment.

He smiled at Chloé, feeling the same familiar brotherly feeling he'd come to associate with the man. He knew that he'd been subconsciously using Chloé as a replacement for his own long-missing brother. He hardly remembered his brother and the memory would probably have been totally obliterated by images of Chloé if not for the well-worn and faded family portrait KR had rescued for him after his parent's murder.

The smile he received in return was sort of strained. Worried, maybe. So Aya had told them, then. He continued watching Chloé as he settled down to repot some plants at the low table in the back of the shop.

"I'm thinking I may get out my pastels again." He said absently, tracing a pattern in the dirt on the table. Said pastels weren't the box Chloé had originally bought him, of course; those had been worn down ages ago. But he had received a new, more expensive looking set for Christmas the previous year and they had hardly been used. He hadn't really felt like drawing much.

This earned him a more normal smile. "More trees?"

"More trees." He nodded, "I've been thinking about it and I'm fairly certain there is a large pad of paper somewhere under my bed." He looked back down at what he was doing, carefully uprooting a small leafy plant and placing it in a bigger pot. He loved the feel of dirt in his hands; it felt good to think that he was helping to support life, rather than take it away. The soil reminded him vaguely of the way it had felt to blend oil pastels with his fingers and the earthy smell made him think fondly of times when he had begged for trips to the park so he could sit under the trees and draw what he saw.

"Am I going to start finding brown and green fingerprints all over the place again, kid?" Chloé's voice held a hint of amusement and Michel couldn't help giggling.

"I think I've grown up enough to know better than to touch anything without washing first. That was nearly four years ago, Chloé!" He grinned, looking happier than Chloé had seen him in a long time, and buried his hands in the dirt again.

The older blond shot him a fond smile, then turned to help a customer who had wandered in.

Michel turned his attention to the task at hand once more, realizing suddenly he had one more plant than pot. He wondered absently how he had miscounted, then rose to fetch another terracotta pot from a shelf in the storeroom.

Stretching on his tiptoes to reach the needed object, he felt a dull pain in his abdomen. It didn't register for a moment that it hurt; it was simply annoying. Then he realized that, to his dismay, he had pulled open at least one of the scabs spanning his stomach. He winced as he retracted his arm, the pot left on the shelf. It hurt now and itched and he was sure he wouldn't be able to make it out of the storeroom and escape upstairs without any one noticing.

_Don't be a baby, Michel,_ he told himself. _Suck it up and deal._ His comrades had lived their normal lives dealing with far worse injuries than those he'd given himself. He could handle this; he could forget about the pain and force himself to finish his work. He took a deep breath, calming himself, and pushed back the pain, turning it all off. If he couldn't feel, he couldn't hurt, after all.

He reached back up to grab the pot, the pain once again nothing more than a niggling little thought in the back of his mind. Everything was so much simpler if he just shut down.

Seated back at the table, he set to work on the last plant, humming softly to himself as he worked. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a couple of middle aged housewives watching him work, whispering to one another. He knew what they were saying, of course. It was always the same old thing…"Look at that gorgeous child. And how nicely he handles the plants, so gentle for some one so young. His parents must be proud." It made his heart twist almost every time, but he found it hard to ignore.

He moved the freshly repotted plants to the sill he'd retrieved them from, then scampered back to clean up the table and put away the bag of soil he'd been using. On the way past the register he was stopped, however, as Chloé's hand caught his sleeve, pulling him to a halt.

"What is all over the front of your shirt?" Crystal blue eyes peered into his and he felt his heart lurch. He'd been bleeding! Bleeding, and it had soaked through the shirt, just as he'd feared earlier. He turned to pull away without answering, but the older man's hand tightened around his wrist.

"Is that blood, Michel?" Chloé hissed, drawing the boy closer and pulling him around behind the counter. "What happened? Why are you bleeding?"

"It's none of your business!" He tried to yank his arm free. Chloé tightened the grip again, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up in search of the spreading stain's source.

"What the…" The man's eyes widened as he stared down at the stripe of exposed flesh, took in the gashes, obviously pulled apart by recent activity. "How did this happen?" He wondered aloud, glancing around the shop. Finding it -thankfully and by some stroke of luck- empty, he dragged the boy over to the door and flipped the little sign to "closed." Then he hurried towards the back of the store, hand still clutching Michel's wrist; unwilling to let go for fear the teen would flee.

Escape was in the forefront of Michel's mind, but Chloé had an iron grip on his arm and breaking free seemed unlikely. He wanted to panic; to cry hysterically. He could feel something akin to mania bubbling up and he knew this would not be good. Chloé wouldn't let something like this go, not without a satisfactory explanation and Michel feared that the only explanation which would be deemed satisfactory would be the truth.

There was a tense moment of silence as Chloé pushed Michel down to a chair and released his arm. The little blond felt even smaller as Chloé towered over him, gaze never leaving his face as he unintentionally did a pretty decent impression of Aya. "What happened, Michel?"

More silence.

Michel turned his head away, unable to stand that intense stare any more. He hated when people looked disappointed in him, but he hated it even more when that worried, uncertain expression was turned his way. He seemed to be getting that a lot lately and he couldn't tell any more whether it was genuine or superficial.

Chloé's fingers beneath his chin forced his head back so that they were again eye-to-eye. He was startled by the blank look on Michel's face; the vacant look in his eyes. With that expression, those wide eyes appeared more grey than green and the man couldn't help noticing that he looked tired. "Who did this to you?"

No answer.

"Did you do it to yourself?" The thought made him sort of sick, but he felt compelled to ask anyway. He had expected some sort of reaction at that, but Michel just stared back at him impassively, not even a flicker of emotion crossing his face. "Dammit Michel, what happened? You're hurt! You can't just pretend you aren't!"

A very, very polite smile suddenly painted itself across Michel's face. "I do not mean to be rude, Chloé, but it's really none of your business." He said simply, voice still devoid of any emotion. On the inside, however, he was crying; sobbing; dying for Chloé to hug him and tell him everything would be okay.

"Michel…" The Romanian man frowned, "This is serious. You need to tell some one what happened." He heaved a sigh, "If you won't tell me, at least tell Free. Please. He's worried about you."

"I.." For a moment, the tiny blond considered letting the entire tale come pouring out; he was so tired. He wasn't sure if he could do it any more. It was getting so hard to pretend. He wanted to tell Chloé so badly; hell, he wanted to tell any one at that point. But he just couldn't do it. "I…I'll try to tell him." He couldn't promise, but he could try. He bowed his head, exhaling softly, drawing the breath back in. It was almost like coming back to life for the briefest of moments.

His head rose when he felt Chloé's hand affectionately ruffling his hair. His eyes widened and he looked up, confused. A half a smile played across the older blond's face as his slender fingers caressed baby-fine blond curls fondly. "It's a start."


	7. Chapter 6

A couple days passed by and time marched on like usual. Michel found himself spending more time with Yuki or locking himself in his room with his sketch pad; it was almost as if he was avoiding Free. After all, if he didn't spend time with Free, he wouldn't have to tell him about what happened, right? He tried to keep himself busy -there was homework to do, errands to run, chores- so that there would be no opportunities for that one awkward silence in which it could all come crashing down.

There was a mission coming up, one which Michel was not pleased about, as he would be playing a key role in it. London's young girls had been disappearing from teen clubs and cafes all over town and there was certainly only one member of the team who could make a convincing decoy.

Thus, the tiny blond found himself dressed in his most androgynous clothes, standing in the middle of the juniors section at a trendy department store, blushing while Chloé held up a short denim skirt.

"This would look awfully cute on you."

The blush spread. "It's not really my style." He muttered, gaze diverted. The tiles of the floor were suddenly very interesting.

"Don't you ever get tired of all the plaid?" Chloé shook his head, hanging the skirt back on the rack.

Michel sighed. He could feel a headache coming on. "I thought that schoolgirl look was in style right now. I've got to look trendy. And I can't look like myself, in case I run into any one I know from school."

"How about that one then?"

The teenager's gaze followed the direction Chloé was pointing, stopping on a black and purple plaid skirt. It looked like it would fall slightly above the knee and was totally unlike anything he would have picked out if he was alone, making it perfect for the mission.

"That would be good…Maybe I could go for that punk-goth look. If we pair it with some black and white stripes…Layer a few things." Chloé nearly laughed at the serious expression on his companion's face. He couldn't help it; Michel looked as if this were the most intense thought he'd given anything all week. "I can borrow a black tee-shirt from Yuki, but there are a few other things we need to get."

A pair of over-the-knee socks, one black and white striped, long sleeved shirt and a changing room later, Chloé found himself face-to-face with a nearly unrecognizable Michel. The boy was swathed in stripes and plaid, the collar of the shirt slipping off and baring a lightly tanned shoulder. The skirt stopped just barely above where the knee socks began and the sleeves of the shirt hung down almost to Michel's fingertips. Dressed like this, it was damn near impossible to tell which gender he was, but the switch to girl would be made fully with the aid of accessories and makeup.

"Do you think we can do something about my hair?" Michel asked, tugging the shirt back up over his shoulder, "It would be far more convincing if it were black or some outlandish color like purple or blue. And I need some shoes." He looked up and Chloé couldn't help thinking sadly that the unnatural paleness of his face and the dark circles beneath his eyes only heightened the illusion of the unhappy goth child he was masquerading as.

"Maybe we can get one of those spray-in hair colors. Your hair is too light for even a temporary dye." He offered Michel a wry smile, "I should know."

The teenager giggled as he ducked back into the fitting room. Chloé had once spent a month with his immaculately groomed hair tinted a sort of rusty brown as the result of a mission. The bottle had claimed the dye would rinse right out, but Chloé's light blond hair had proved otherwise. The color had simply faded and they had all endured weeks of his agitation over the situation. "We could probably pick up a cheap spray somewhere." Michel called through the door, "It is close enough to Halloween that almost any drug store should carry it."

"Good thinking, kid. And while we're there, we can pick up some eyeliner and black nail polish for you." Chloé looked at his watch, "We'll get some shoes, then some lunch, then head down to the pharmacy on the way home."

Michel nodded, forgetting that Chloé couldn't see him through the door of the fitting room. He was stripping off the foreign clothes, eager to be back in his worn and familiar clothing. He felt vulnerable in the skirt; exposed. The draft had been unpleasant, yet somehow exciting, against his bare skin. He imagined how easy it would be for Thomas or any of the other boys at school to paw at him if they ever caught him dressed like that and the thought made his skin crawl.

"Wait until every one else sees you dressed like that." He heard Chloé saying from outside the pressboard door. "I know Ken and I tease you, but I don't think any of us really believed you could make such a convincing girl. Yuki'll probably wet himself."

Michel closed his eyes as Chloé continued to snicker. He didn't care what Yuki thought of him, but as he peeled the striped shirt over his head, he let his mind wander…

He tried to imagine Free's reaction to seeing him in this ridiculous get-up, but all the mental images he kept getting involved one of Free's hands running up his bare thigh, disappearing under the purple and black plaid and the look of surprised pleasure on Free's face when he discovered Michel had absolutely nothing on under the damnable skirt.

At Chloé's knock on the door and questioning if he was nearly done, Michel snapped back to reality, a fierce blush spreading across his face. He wondered vaguely at his own boldness as he quickly pulled his clothes on, attempting to will away the result of the scandalous daydream by thinking of the least arousing things possible.

Chloé gave him a strange look as he emerged, cheeks still pink. This mission was going to be very stressful and awkward if he allowed himself any more little fantasies like that. Fortunately, Yuki was being forced to go undercover as well. Yuki, however, did not have to dress like an over-sexed teen girl. At this point, it seemed Yuki would simply be forced into a dreary black outfit as the male counterpart of Michel's gothic ensemble. It really wouldn't be that big of a change on Yuki's part; most of his tees and sweatshirts were black. All he needed was a pair of pants loaded with straps and zippers and he'd be set.

Michel followed Chloé to the register, the clothes bunched up in his arms. He made a face at the sight of the cashier, a willowy, dark haired woman with bright eyes who couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from Chloé, and plunked the pile of clothes on the counter.

She started to fold them, still making doe-eyes at Chloé, who simply smiled and shifted all his weight to one hip, leaning against the counter. "Are these clothes for your daughter?" She chirped, inclining her head in Michel's direction, "They're a very different style than what she's wearing."

The youth in question frowned, piping up with an answer before Chloé could even open his mouth. "They're for my cousin for her birthday. Father isn't very fashionable, so his…friend here" -he coughed slightly, raising his eyebrows suggestively on the word friend- "offered to help me out." He said casually, easily ignoring the embarrassed, menacing glare that he knew Chloé had fixed on him.

"Oh, you poor dear!" How swiftly the woman's tone had changed, "I hope your cousin likes them." She rang up the purchases and slid them neatly into a bag. Chloé was still glaring as he passed his credit card to her, but she didn't seem to notice.

Michel took the bag, smiling as sweetly as he knew how. "Thank you, ma'am."

"What the hell was that for, kid?" Chloé demanded as they left the store. "I could have got her number."

"Call it payback for the Yuki comment. And you're forcing me into that embarrassing skirt! Did you expect me to wear it willingly?" He blushed, "I am a boy. Boys do not wear skirts."

"You wear that nice little kilt plenty. It shouldn't be that big of a change."

"It's completely different and you know it!" He glanced up at Chloé, only to find the man smiling down at him. He blushed a little when he realized Chloé had been teasing, then smiled, knowing that there were no hard feelings over the cashier. "Shoes next?"

"Ja." Chloé grinned, leading the boy down the street in the direction of one of his favorite shoe stores.

-----

Yuki had mixed feelings about Sundays. On one hand, they were the only day on which the shop was regularly closed. On the other, they meant that there was school again the following day and he had to get the homework he put off finished or Aya would harp on him.

Currently, he was engaged in said homework.

He groaned in frustration, chucking a pen across his desk, only slightly satisfied when it left a mark on the wall. This damn poem made no sense! How was he supposed to write a critique on it when he had no clue what it was about?

"Yuki?"

His head jerked up at the sound of Michel's voice and he twisted around in the chair, turning to find the younger boy peeking into his room. "How was the shopping trip?"

Michel took that as an invitation and padded softly into the room, flopping on Yuki's bed. Over the past couple days, the two boys had grown closer to one another as they spent time doing homework or chores together. The little blond was happy that Yuki finally seemed to be opening up to him, while at the same time not making any demands of him. "You're lucky you don't have to dress like a girl for this." He rolled over on his side, plucking a fuzz ball off Yuki's spare afghan, "Wait until you see what Chloé's making me wear."

"That bad, huh?" Yuki rose, stretching and casting a dark glance at his homework. He shuffled over to the bed, scratching his stomach through his sweatshirt, and settled down next to Michel. "You look tired."

"I am. Shopping with Chloé is positively exhausting." A fond smile played across his face as he looked over at the dark-haired boy. "How's the homework going?"

"Sucks." The American stared up at the ceiling, "I hate Shakespeare and I hate sonnets."

"That bad?" Michel teased, poking at Yuki's ribs. That earned him an eye roll and he giggled, snuggling close to Yuki. "I'm glad we're friends now. It means a lot to me."

"Yeah; yeah…" Yuki grumbled, "Don't get all mushy on me." He may have been frowning, but he didn't push Michel away. "Us poor little orphans need to stick together, after all."

"Oh Yuki…" Michel sighed, "Don't let them get to you."

"Just like you don't, right?" The older teen's scowl made Michel recoil slightly. Yuki felt a wash of guilt when the little blond turned on his other side, facing the wall. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean that."

"It's different." He whispered, "T'isn't the same because they don't _hurt_ you."

Yuki wondered absently when he would get used to Michel's accent. There was something soft and soothing about it, some lilting quality which made it seem to role off his tongue. KR's accent was different; more refined. Chloé and Free's were another story all together. The German accent was nasal and kind of difficult for him to understand at times, but Yuki was used to it at this point. The same with Aya and Ken. It was unusual and exotic, but nothing he hadn't gotten used to with time. For some reason, the singsong quality of Michel's voice was still foreign to him and he couldn't figure out why.

"Michel…I'm sorry." Yuki frowned to himself, "But, God, you need to stop hurting yourself over it. It's not worth it. And we're all worried about you. No one knows what to do."

Yuki was startled to suddenly find himself with an armful of sobbing blond. Michel buried his face in Yuki's chest, clinging to him and weeping softly. He patted his back awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Michel's sniffles and sobs were muffled and Yuki could feel a damp spot spreading on his shirt, caused by the tears pouring from the younger boy's eyes.

"It's okay." He offered lamely, still patting the other boy's trembling shoulders, "We'll all help you."

"Yuuuuki…" The name poured out of Michel's mouth in a little wailing cry, "Yuki, what am I gonna…" The sentence was broken up by a sniffle, "What am I gonna dooooo?"

"Hey, calm down!" Yuki hugged him gently, still unsure what the hell he was doing, but determined to try. "What are you going to do about what?"

"I'm gaaaaay!" The wailing increased in volume and Michel clung to Yuki desperately, as if afraid he would disappear somehow.

It was on the tip of Yuki's tongue to say "well, that's really no surprise" but he bit back the comment and hugged Michel tighter. "I told you already, that's not a big deal. You're still my friend. Besides, do you think it's really such a bad thing? I mean, we do live with some pretty attractive guys…"

Michel hiccupped against his chest. His shoulders were still shaking and Yuki wasn't sure, but he might have been laughing at that. He petted the unruly blond curls, trying to draw Michel's face away from his chest. "Come on…It's really not that bad." He said reassuringly, "No one here's going to care. Look who we live with. Does any one here seem all that straight to you?"

This earned him a sniffley giggle. Michel sighed, looking up at Yuki, tears still rolling down his face. "Good point." He paused for a moment, contemplative. "Even you?"

Yuki blushed lightly and Michel's eyes widened. "Really? You too?" He questioned, disbelieving. Yuki never struck him as the type. If anything, Yuki seemed positively asexual. This was very new and very interesting.

"Well…" Yuki wished he had kept his mouth shut, "There's this boy…I see him around downtown sometimes. Usually in that little park at the end of the block. He's got so much hair and I want to touch it." He rambled, "He's really pretty, almost like a girl."

"Have you ever talked to him?" The tears had stopped; Michel was simply curious at this point. "Maybe he likes you too!" He offered helpfully.

"I don't know him, Michel. He doesn't go to our school. I just see him when I wander around sometimes. I don't even have any idea what his name is." He sighed, "But what about you? Is there some one you've got in mind?" Yuki had his suspicions, of course. A while ago, he had caught Michel kissing Free in the living room.

The smaller boy blushed brightly, burying his face in Yuki's shirt again. "Is it bad that I daydream about Free?" He whispered, voice muffled.

"Bad? No way!" Yuki took a deep breath, figuring there was only one good way to reassure Michel. "When I first met him, I had the biggest crush on Aya, of all people." He blushed softly as the Irish boy settled back in the curve of his side, snuggling close once more. "You and Free have known each other a long time. I don't think it's weird or anything."

"He's so much older than me though. And I don't think he thinks of me _that_ way anyway. We're just…friends. Or, like, brothers or something. I don't think he'll ever see me as anything more." He sighed, resting his head on Yuki's shoulder.

"Well, you won't know until you try." Yuki put an arm around him, cuddling him close in an uncharacteristic display of affection. "But hey…We're both young still. Neither of us should be worrying about this."

"I suppose." Michel yawned, "Don't tell any one, okay? I don't want them to think I'm being silly."

"I won't tell if you don't tell." Yuki offered him half a smile.

Michel nodded, then fell silent for a moment, staring at their socked feet. "Have you ever kissed any one, Yuki?" He asked curiously, "Really kissed, I mean."

The boy in question blushed and shook his head, looking embarrassed. He had been getting more comfortable with Michel, but this was going into awkward territories. If the blond was hoping for advice, he certainly wasn't going to get any.

"I kissed Free once." Michel admitted, blushing softly, "But I don't think it really counts. He didn't kiss me back and I never bothered trying again. But it didn't seem bad…Or wrong. It was like…" He struggled to explain, knowing Yuki might not get it, "Like…home."

"Home?" Yuki blinked, slightly confused. What was that supposed to mean? Home was a place, not a person. Home was here, or wherever else Krypton made them live.

"He makes me feel safe and protected. Welcome. Like I don't have to be afraid."

"But you won't tell him about this." Yuki's hand rested lightly over Michel's stomach, knowing full well that it was still a mess of fading scabs beneath the fabric of his shirt, "Or about Thomas either."

"I can't tell him about those things!" A sort of pouty frown crossed the blond's face, "I don't want to ruin anything we have now. I don't want him to be disappointed in me, Yuki. He thought I stopped doing it…He'll be disappointed if he knows I'm still doing it. As for Thomas…I can take care of myself. I don't need help."

"Yeah, you handle things real well." Yuki scoffed, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his voice, "That's why you're covered in scars, isn't it?"

Beside him, Michel stiffened. "That's not funny." His voice was soft and held a hint of hurt.

"I'm sorry!" The older boy heaved a sigh, twisting on his side and pulling Michel close to keep him from running off. "I'm not any good at this kind of…comfort…thing, okay?" The blond nodded and he wondered vaguely how many times Michel might have come to him, upset and lonely, and he'd been too self-absorbed or awkward to help him out. He was getting better; really he was. He was trying to listen to the other teen and offer him advice without biting his head off, but it was a hard habit to break. "Why do you really do it, Michel?"

"I…I'm not really sure any more. I used to do it to stop the hurt…I guess I kind of taught myself how to turn off all my feelings. Or it was so easy to focus on a hurt I had caused myself, rather than one caused by some one else. Sometimes, it was an easier way to let everything out than to talk to some one else. I grew up without other children; I learned how to keep things to myself. KR…isn't the best father figure. I had everything I could have wanted, except the attention a child deserves. He simply couldn't spare time to make sure I was tended to as I should have been." He paused for a moment to catch his breath, giving Yuki time to swallow the information.

"Because of that, I learned to fend for myself. It was around the time I started at St Justin Martyr's that Chloé was brought here, but he was a grown man and I had learned that grown-ups had very little time for the problems of a small child. So I rarely tried to tell Chloé when something was bothering me. I started cutting myself instead, around the time I turned thirteen. It was easier than trying to talk at that point and a lot less difficult to hide too. It was something…I had control over. All of my life was planned and scheduled for me, but this was something all my own. Back then, I was in charge of it. But it's such a rush; so addicting. I don't know any more…I can't really explain it to some one who's never done it."

"Sometimes though…" Here his voice dropped to a whisper, "Sometimes I do it just to remind myself I'm alive. If I hurt; if I can still feel…Then I'm still human."

Yuki shivered, hugging him closer, "There are other ways to remind yourself you're alive. Please…Don't hurt yourself any more."

Michel was silent for a moment, touched at Yuki's concern. The older boy rarely showed this vulnerable side; rarely showed his weaknesses. Yes, he could cry over Alison and Akagawa, but it wasn't the same. Peering into his haunted eyes, Michel could see a sort of deep rooted fear; it seemed almost as if he was afraid of losing some one else close to him. He had a wild urge to laugh hysterically for a moment; Yuki wasn't close to him. Yuki tolerated him, but they weren't close. Although maybe -just maybe- Yuki was as lonely as he was.

"I can try. I can _try,_ Yuki, but I can't make any promises. Don't ask me to promise." He whispered.

"That's better than nothing." Yuki cuddled him reassuringly, "And I'll help," He paused, hesitating, "If you want me to."

A soft smile crossed the blond's face and he rested his head on Yuki's shoulder. "Aye; I think I'd like that."


	8. Chapter 7

A dreary afternoon two days later found Michel and Yuki lounging in the family room after school, watching reruns of "Monty Python's Flying Circus" on the BBC. Yuki had had a big test that day which he felt he'd done miserably on and was therefore miserable. He was eating Oreo Cookies; or rather, he was licking the cream from the middle and piling the cookie parts on a napkin. A glass of milk sat on the coffee table which he explained was for dipping the cookies at a later time.

Michel was gazing absently at the television. When he was in a certain mood, he rather liked Monty Python, but this episode about self-defense against fruit just wasn't doing it for him. It was ironic, he thought bitterly, that it would happen to be such an episode, when he was the "fruit" people were trying to harm. Yuki was sniggering constantly; he apparently had a great fondness for the work of John Cleese and Eric Idle; he'd said he grew up watching _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_.

"Yuki?" Michel finally broke the silence between them, turning his green gaze to the older teen.

"Eh?" Yuki grunted out a response, face still turned towards the glowing television.

"That boy you have the crush on…" The blond paused, biting his lip. He was unsure how Yuki would react to this next bit of information. "I spoke to him yesterday."

"You WHAT!" Yuki finally managed to tear himself away from the antics of Cleese and stared at his companion. Why would Michel talk to that boy? How? When? He felt his face heat up. This had potential to be bad…

"He was sitting at the little café on the corner, drinking tea. I stopped in to purchase those biscuits we had after dinner and noticed him there." Michel smiled, "He looked particularly lonely."

"So naturally you went to talk to him." Yuki's sarcasm was apparently lost on Michel, as the tiny blond enthusiastically plowed on with his story of the previous afternoon's events.

"Of course I did! I got myself a mocha with whipped cream as a reason to stay and asked if I could sit with him. He said it was fine, so I sat. I introduced myself and asked if he lived around here and he said aye!" Here Michel paused to beam at Yuki, "Only a couple a blocks away, he said. His name is Haku and he's from Japan, like Aya and Ken. His dad's company sent them here, to their London branch, and he doesn't know any one else here that's Japanese, only his mum and dad." The little blond wriggled in his seat, looking quite excited, "And he's noticed you! He's seen you and I together, so he was asking me about you. He wanted to know if you were Japanese and I said you were, but you were part American too! Next time you see him, you should go talk to him." This bit of advice given, Michel sat back, grinning widely at Yuki.

Yuki stared at him for a moment, unsure what to say. He wasn't quite sure if Michel's meddling would yield positive or negative results, but he did at least know the mystery boy's name. That in itself was helpful, if nothing else. "Thanks." He finally managed, "I guess."

Michel beamed at him, not allowing Yuki's hesitancy and uncertainty to register properly in his mind. If he pretended that certain unhappiness wasn't there, he wouldn't feel as if Yuki were upset with him for his forwardness and probably unwanted help in the situation. He knew Yuki would not be pleased that he'd talked to this mysterious Haku-person, but he kept telling himself he was being helpful. It was simply easier that way.

Yuki frowned lightly, turning his attention back to his Oreos and the television. When Michel got in these "helpful" sorts of moods, it was easier to concentrate on something else and pretend the whole thing had never happened. Of course, Yuki himself wasn't as good at pretending things never happened as Michel was, but when it came to the little blond, he had himself well-trained to ignore the things about him which bothered him.

Yuki distinctly remembered the night he and Michel had met. In his first moments in the presence of the members of Side B, he had judged the slightly-smaller boy to be aggravating. He just wouldn't stop talking and Yuki hadn't cared…"_You're Japanese, aren't you? Just like Aya and Ken! I'm from Ireland…Don't remember it much. You speak English well, but it's not the Queen's English, it's more of what Chloé tells me is 'slum talk.' Not to say you're from a slum or anything! Where are you from, anyway?"_ He hadn't bothered to ask again who Chloé was, rather he had told Michel to shut up; that they had nothing to say to each other. And still, the other teen had persisted and Yuki had found himself more than annoyed.

As he got used to Michel, the annoyance seemed to slowly fade away. He got aggravated or riled easily over things his companion said or did, but it wasn't the same kind of intense, I-wish-you'd-leave-me-alone annoyance as it had been in the early stages of their relationship. He found himself simmering down quicker and, upon reevaluating what had got him pissed off in the first place, realizing that Michel wasn't actually as obnoxious as he'd first thought. They did have a lot in common and the younger teen did have every one's best interests at heart.

He would never admit it, but he found that he was actually rather fond of Michel.

Yuki was so lost in thought, it took him a moment to realize that Michel had left the room. He looked up from the cookies he'd engrossed himself in, surprised to find the spot next to him vacant and Michel gone. He blinked, wondering how long he'd been staring at the cookies, then shrugged, turning his attention back to the television.

-----

Michel had gotten bored. His attention span wasn't craving the slap-stick comedy that the Python troupe presented and he could only watch Yuki's meticulous dissection of Oreo cookies for so long. He knew that his American friend could spend hours engrossed in whatever he was watching, provided the right thing was on, and he was itching to do something worthwhile.

He peeked into the shop, making a note that Ken was watering plants and Free was at the register, ringing up a purchase for a shy, seemingly-nervous woman. He shook his head slightly, wondering how any one could be afraid of Free, then padded up the back steps to his bedroom.

For a moment, Michel thought he might dig out his pastels and draw. He had told Chloé he wanted to begin drawing again, after all. The day before, he had squirmed under his bed to the very back corner and pulled out -covered in dust bunnies- the sketch pad he'd known was under there somewhere. How the book had wound up in the very recesses of the cavern that was the underside of his bed, he never was quite sure. But there it was, one corner slightly crumpled, but still functional.

He had put it in a drawer in his desk, tucked away safely until he needed or wanted it. The box of pastels he'd gotten last Christmas was also somewhere in the desk, but he hadn't used them in months and forgotten which drawer he'd put them in.

Michel didn't particularly feel like hunting down the small metal box of pastels. He was sort of unorganized, although there was a method to his madness, and finding things was sometimes something of a hassle.

Instead, he decided it would be easier to start on his homework and save himself the bother of doing it later when he was tired or didn't feel like it. Only Yuki put off his homework until the last minute and risked the wrath of Aya. Only Yuki was brave enough. Aya had never yelled at Michel for anything, but then the blond didn't often give him occasion to. Michel couldn't remember the last time -save his trying to leave school early- he had caused any sort of transgression that would result in an Aya-lecture.

He had a history assignment that he wasn't especially keen on doing. History bored him and he hated it, especially because the boys in his class liked to poke fun at him whenever there was any sort of mention of the Irish in their textbook. It wasn't his fault he was Irish nor was it his fault that he now lived in London. This was one of those occasions where -if he were particularly vindictive- he could have blamed everything on Free. After all, if Free hadn't brought him here, he simply wouldn't be here.

But then…He would also be dead.

Not a thought he wanted lingering too long.

Besides, he loved Free. He couldn't blame him. It was Krypton's fault, if any one's. He'd ordered Side A to eliminate his parents. He'd decided to keep Michel, rather than look for his family. His brother was out there somewhere. Brandon would have been in his twenties by now…Twenty-four if Michel remembered correctly. He wondered sometimes why Krypton and Nana had never looked for Brandon, but didn't bother questioning it too much. The Brandon of his memory had been like a younger, smaller version of their father and he wasn't sure he wanted anything having to do with the IRA as a part of his life again.

Even with that, he couldn't bring himself to hate Krypton either. He was alive, he had a good home and he was well taken care of, even if no one at the Kitten's House but Yuki knew what it was like to be a teenager. And Yuki wasn't exactly helpful. He preferred to submerge himself in television and Playstation games, totally oblivious to real life. Not helpful at all.

He sighed, staring down at his textbook. He couldn't concentrate and the words seemed to all run together. He had no clue what he was reading about or what he was supposed to be doing. Answering some questions, maybe. That was usually what the history assignments consisted of. Boring. Dull. He simply couldn't do it. It occurred to him that he'd been reading the same sentence over and over again for the last fifteen minutes or so and had absolutely no clue what it said.

Frustrated, he shoved his chair back from the desk. His work would have to wait until later. He was feeling too strung out and flighty to get any of it done.

Michel wandered back downstairs, intent on finding something to keep himself busy until dinnertime. Yuki wouldn't leave the den until some one pried him out of the couch cushions, not with the prospect of several more hours of Monty Python to keep him busy. Aya had the day off and Chloé was running errands. That gave Michel three choices to keep himself entertained.

He could do some chores. Aya was the stickler about keeping clean and he was out, so the place hadn't been tidied according to Aya-standards. He could go out for a while; no one would mind. Or he could go see if Free and Ken needed any help in the shop.

The shop seemed like the best option. The weather forecast that morning had prophesized rain and the sky was rather grey. Cleaning was by far his least favorite of the options. Besides, Ken got on Free's nerves at time. It was hard to tell, really; Free was always so impassive. But Michel knew…

So the shop it was.

He padded in, offering a surprisingly shy, soft "hullo." His standard greeting was usually much more exuberant, not to mention much, much louder. Ken gave him a strange look, but recovered quickly, grinning and waving with a cheerful hello. The brunet was still watering things; it seemed that not much time had elapsed between Michel's checking up on his teammates and his failed attempt at homework.

He watched Free for a moment. Two school-aged children were looking at him nervously, as if they were debating over whether or not it was safe to approach him. Free was doing a good job pretending he wasn't watching them analyze him, but Michel could see the man's dark, heavy-lidded eyes trained on them. The little blond tried to imagine how Free must have looked to the brother and sister duo, but he simply could not understand why they were so hesitant to approach him. He'd never been afraid of Free; not even when he was small.

The sister was whispering to her brother, trying to push him towards the counter. He was shaking his head, his expression one of slight fear. "You do it!" He whispered loudly.

Michel frowned softly. He had just noticed the bouquet of daisies and baby's breath in the girl's hand and figured they must have picked it out themselves, as Ken was busy and they had yet to realize how nice Free was. Forcing a wide, friendly smile onto his face, he went over to the siblings. "May I help you with something?"

The sister looked up, startled. The brother gave him a suspicious glance, looked warily at Free, then back at Michel. "You work here?" The authoritative, albeit incredulous, tone of the boy's voice nearly made the teenager laugh.

"Aye." He nodded patiently. The boy looked around eleven; the girl, maybe eight or nine. "Did you find everything all right?" He asked politely.

The girl brandished the bouquet, which looked slightly wilted. He wondered momentarily how long she'd been holding it in a vice-grip. "It's for Mum…It's her birthday." She offered, stealing another look at Free.

It was beginning to irk Michel. He knew Free's attention had turned away from these stupid children; he had felt that deep gaze on him the moment the man had registered his presence in the shop. He was used to that. His friend's watchfulness was familiar and needed; it made him safe. Free would never let any one hurt him. Why couldn't these children see that? "If you're all set then, Free-" He nodded towards the register, "-can ring you up."

The sister shot him a frightened look, then turned to her brother for guidance. Michel turned away, rolling his eyes, then padded over to the counter to fetch the broom and dustpan. It appeared Ken had knocked some petals and dead leaves to the ground as he watered the plants and it was Michel's intent to clean them up. He paused to smile at Free, who patted him on the head, then scampered back over towards the shedding displays.

As if emboldened by Michel's bravery in the face of the "terror" that was Free, the brother shoved his sister forwards towards the register, as she was still clutching the bouquet. She gave an indignant squeak, looking pleadingly at him, and he huffed, then snatched the flowers from her hand. She followed closely behind him, as if unwilling to let him get away and leave her there. He marched purposefully to the counter and thumped down the slightly-wilted bouquet, chin raised, nose in the air like a common snob. "We," He stated, nodding towards his sister, "Want to buy this."

Free studied him for a moment, a bored look on his face. Took in the pale skin. Freckles. A thatch of brown hair and eyes surprisingly as deeply blue as Yuki's. The girl, an identical, female and smaller version of her brother, was peeking out at him. Scared of him. They were scared of him; both of them. That much he could see.

He didn't understand why though. Michel had never been afraid of him. Neither had Yuki. But then, he suspected that there were few things Yuki was afraid of.

He attempted to smile at the two children. Got stuck. Smiling was still hard, even now, even when he had many things to smile about. He abandoned the endeavor and rang up their purchase, silent. He looked at the flowers. They'd selected one of the pre-made bouquets from the refrigerated display case. Yuki and Michel had done all of those arrangements; they were the simple, last minute bouquets that people tended to stop and pick up on their way home from work. Daisies and baby's breath. Innocence. He doubted that they knew the meaning, yet it was so perfectly fitting.

He must have told them the amount due, because the boy plunked the money on the counter, still staring at him rudely. Free blinked at him, counting the money silently as he placed it in the drawer of the cash register. He handed the boy his change, their gaze still trailed on one another. The girl picked up the bouquet and they moved towards the door, almost as one singular unit, no other words exchanged between them.

Free looked up to find Michel watching him.

The little blond was holding the broom in one hand, a broken rosebud in the other. He was twirling the mangled flower between his fingers and blushed when he realized he'd been caught staring.

Free smiled at him. As hard as it was to smile at any one else, Michel made it seem simple. It was so easy to smile with him, to laugh and to be genuine. Inner-Free grinned in triumph when the smile caused Michel to blush brighter, and he beckoned the boy over to him.

Michel padded over, the broom trailing behind him. His face was still pink; the blush had crept across the bridge of his nose and he was smiling shyly, grey-green eyes sparkling. Again, the word "adorable" flitted through Free's mind as he watched his young friend move towards him.

The teenager was still holding the rosebud; it had been snapped, undoubtedly, by a careless customer. He offered it to Free. "Some one broke it." God, that was a stupid thing to say. Of course it was broken; that much was obvious.

Free took it carefully, holding it between thumb and forefinger. He studied it for a moment, then nodded decisively. "It may still live, if we are careful. Will you get me a bud vase please?" He smiled as Michel ran off, looking down at the bud in his hand. Beauty and youth; a heart innocent of love. Michel was like that bud; broken, manhandled. But if cared for properly, both could still bloom.

Michel came back soon enough, a small, crystal vase in his hand. His movements were deliberate, as if he was afraid he might drop the vase. Free was certain that the blond would, under no circumstances, be so clumsy, but he wasn't about to complain. He enjoyed watching that lean body moving so gracefully; imagining, mentally undressing, wondering what the teen looked like…Where had that come from? He shook his head softly, schooling that thought and tucking it away for later consideration.

The bud was placed ceremoniously in the vase, the vase set just so beside the cash register. Free leaned casually against the counter, watching his friend lovingly tend to the broken flower. Watched as small hands arranged the bud satisfactorily in the vase. Michel's eyes were shining contentedly, more green than grey today. He seemed happy. Unlike the past few days, when he had been ignoring Free.

Free reached out, almost hesitant, resting a hand on Michel's shoulder. The boy turned in one fluid motion, beaming up at him. He swallowed hard -how did Michel make him melt like that with just one little look?- offering his version of a smile in return. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a split second to compose himself. It would be so easy to haul Michel off and…The thought shocked him.

Upon opening his eyes, he found Michel looking at him quizzically, gaze wide and curious.

"Are you all right?" Those wide eyes blinked; that soft voice was full of concern.

"I am fine." Another half-smile softened Free's face. He wanted desperately to ask why Michel had been avoiding him; he couldn't bear to think he'd done something to upset him. But he couldn't bring himself to destroy the happy moment. "You don't have any homework today?"

"Couldn't concentrate." Michel shrugged, "I'll do it later." He smiled shyly, toying with the hem of his shirtsleeve. "Besides, I'd much rather be with you at the moment." He cuddled against Free's side, feeling oddly vulnerable all of a sudden. One of Free's large hands rose; the man began stroking his hair unconsciously. He felt his face heat up at the contact and hated himself for blushing. _"I love you."_ It would have been so easy to say it; it was there, on the tip of his tongue. But he knew Free wouldn't take him seriously; how could he possibly?

He wondered for a moment if things would have been different if he were a girl. He looked so much like his mother; he would have been the kind of girl every man wanted: slender, blonde, shy and pretty. What every boy wished for and what every girl wish they were, if the media gave any indication. He was all those things still; oh yes he was. But he was a boy and, as a boy, he shouldn't have been so.

If he were a girl, though, it would make so many things okay. It would be okay for him to be attracted to Free. It would be okay for him to admit to the attraction. It would be okay for the boys at St. Justin Martyr's to desire him. Not to touch him, but to desire him. His clothes, his hair, his face…It would all be perfectly normal. It would be okay; it would all be fine. And he wouldn't be going to Hell.

He yawned softly, nuzzling into the gentle touches. It was only five o'clock, but he was tired. He was always tired these days, it seemed; he never got enough sleep. No matter when he went to bed, he woke up tired. He had nightmares; he couldn't get comfortable. The only times he ever got a good, restful sleep were those nights he crept into Free's room.

"Stay here and help me then." Free's voice broke through his thoughts, "There is a lot of change that needs to be rolled." He was still fingering the baby-fine curls, secretly enjoying the feel of the tiny body pressed to his side.

"Okay." Michel nodded, "We can do it together."

"Ja." Free's mouth curved upwards in a faint smile, "Together."


	9. Chapter 8

**I'm kind of sad. I only got one review last chapter and it wasn't from any of the four of you who usually review. Where were you? -cries-**

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Ice cream.

It was Michel's favorite thing in the world. The flavor didn't really matter, so long as it was cold and creamy and sweet. And no bananas; that was his one rule. Bananas were gross and he neither wanted banana flavored ice cream nor any sort of banana in his ice cream. No, flavors didn't matter. But chocolate…was God. He felt a tad blasphemous thinking this -he was Catholic, after all, and "thou shall not worship false idols"- but he couldn't help it. He loved chocolate in all forms, especially in the form of Haagen Dazs white chocolate raspberry truffle.

This fact was, of course, something every one was aware of. Chloé had made sure of that. He had discovered the boy's fondness for the frozen treat shortly after they met and they had all been amazed by the sheer amounts of it the little blond could consume.

Especially with the way Michel had been eating lately.

Yuki was right. Michel hadn't been eating enough and it showed. His baby-face was thinner and his clothes hung on his slight frame. He had always been small and thin, but lately, he looked as if he was wasting away.

He had picked at dinner that night, pushing the food around his plate until what had originally been meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas resembled a sort of greenish-brown slop on his plate. Why Ken had decided to make meatloaf in the first place was a mystery still -even Aya had raised a brow at it. Yuki, in typical teenage fashion, had scarfed it down, hardly paying mind to what was on his plate, but every one else had given Ken questioning looks, to which the brunet had shrugged.

Michel did not like meatloaf. Not anywhere near as much as he liked ice cream, at least. He had played with his food until every one else was done eating. He'd done a superb job of making it look like he'd eaten something, but the one bite he'd actually taken had not been enough to keep him satisfied until breakfast time.

Thus, the ice cream.

Around nine-thirty, he padded down the steps and into the kitchen. Without even bothering to turn on the light, he opened the freezer and began rummaging, the light from the hall just enough for him to see what he was doing. He had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the very back of the freezer, but he found what he was looking for in the end.

One pint -half-eaten- of white chocolate raspberry truffle. It had been hidden behind what looked like a half-package of German sausages, which would account for its continued existence in a house containing the bottomless pits that were Ken and Yuki.

Humming to himself, Michel rooted for a spoon and wandered into the living room with it and the pint. Ken was in there, playing some hideously gory video game, as well as Chloé and Free, who were both somehow ignoring the explosions and agonizing cries emitting from the television.

The blond climbed up on the couch between Chloé and Free, glancing at the book in Free's hands. It was leather-bound and the cover bore a long title, gilt and in German. Chloé was occupied with a copy of the London Times metro section, no doubt keeping up on all the fashionable places to be seen in his time off. Ken's gaze was glued to the television, eyes glazed over, and he hadn't even glanced up as the Irish teen had entered the room.

Free smiled at him over the top of the book. Michel grinned back, pulling the lid off the pint of ice cream and settling back against the sofa cushions. The paper rustled slightly and Chloé's disembodied voice issued a "hello" from behind the newsprint.

Michel dug into the ice cream, eating around the freezer burned bits, and the four of them remained in companionable silence for a while, save for the noises of Ken's video game and the occasional rustle of paper. The little blond was happy to note that Ken was channeling his destructive energy into something that wouldn't cause any one physical harm, though it may kill a few brain cells here and there. Playstation-Addict-Ken was so much better than Angry-Ken and Michel didn't mind at all. He'd seen the results of some of his physical fights with Aya and Chloé. Ken had even once picked a fight with Free, who'd looked at him like he'd lost his head and simply walked away from him. Yes, Michel much preferred this version of Ken.

Chloé got to the end of his paper and lowered it, watching Michel for a moment. The boy was happily absorbed in his treat, small tongue darting out to lick the spoon, a look of sheer pleasure on his face. Chloé smirked. He'd never seen some one so innocent make eating look so positively sexual. But then…Michel was nearly fifteen. It was about time he grew up a little. He certainly wasn't the shy, very Catholic little thing he'd been when they had first met.

He hadn't grown much -he was maybe only an inch or two taller than he'd been at eleven- but he had thinned out as his body matured, even though he never really seemed to grow out of that gangly stage. Chloé knew he wasn't as scrawny as he looked; there was muscle in there. He and Michel had been training together for a long time, after all. But he was lean and agile, all long limbs like a baby deer, and probably had no idea just how much he had grown up in the four years Chloé had known him.

Michel had been very timid back then as well. Six years of an Irish Catholic upbringing could do that to a person, Chloé supposed. He could understand that; most of his family had been strict Romanian Orthodox and they were almost as fanatical as the Catholics. Granted, Michel had been in KR's care for five years when he and Chloé met, but the Conrads had done an exemplary job of beating the Catholic faith into their son before they died. Eleven year old Michel had thought nearly everything was a sin; he'd even believed that KR was doomed to hell for being a Protestant.

He had been shy when they first met, attempting to hide first behind his dog, then behind Krypton himself, as the older man introduced them. Michel had been small then; Chloé had been twice his age. He'd peeked out from behind KR, green eyes wide and curious, then ducked shyly back behind. Chloé had smiled, easily sliding into this game of "let's see how long I can pretend I'm invisible," and spoke with KR as if the curious little boy weren't even there.

Michel had eventually come out his final hiding place -this being the underside of the table- when the maid had brought in tea. She set the tea tray, complete with a plate of biscuits, on the polished tabletop, bowing politely to Krypton, who dismissed her with a cheery "thank you." One small hand shot out from under the table, scrabbling for the cookies, and KR grabbed Michel by the wrist. "Enough, Michel. It's time to stop being rude."

A soft apology had come from beneath the table, barely audible, and a blond head had peeked out, glancing over the top of the table at Chloé. "Forgive me." The kid repeated, looking Chloé square in the eye this time, a pleading look on his face.

"It is all right." Chloé had smiled in reply. His accent was thicker then, his English not quite so refined. Something about Michel -maybe it was that terribly lonely, ashamed look on that very young face- had tugged at his heart. The kid looked as if he desperately needed a friend. He'd pushed the silver serving plate towards Michel. "I certainly cannot eat all these myself. Perhaps you'll help me?"

That had earned him a smile and Michel clambered into a nearby chair, reaching eagerly for the plate and thanking him enthusiastically. Chloé had wondered after who the boy was; they'd been introduced, but none of his background had been divulged at that point. Krypton's illegitimate child, perhaps, being raised in secret. They had the same light-blond hair, after all, and Krypton was certainly old enough to have an eleven year old son.

Thus he had been shocked a couple days later, when Michel told him bluntly over breakfast, "Mum and Dad were killed. Free killed them." He had turned to look at the child and was startled to find his face completely blank; those wide green eyes devoid of any emotion. "Mr. Krypton told me. That's why I'm here. Free killed them and brought me here." Chloé had felt terrible for the boy and even worse when he learned the full story behind the situation. Michel himself, he was told, had only learned all the details shortly before Chloé had arrived, and hadn't properly figured out how to grieve over it yet.

Chloé had felt overwhelming compassion for that child who didn't even know how to properly grieve the loss of his family. He had loved and cared for Michel like a brother for four years, watching him to make sure he was okay and encouraging him out of his shell. They were fond of one another and Chloé was proud to have had a hand in raising the boy who now seemed to be making love to his ice cream.

Feeling eyes upon him, Michel looked up, smiling at Chloé. "Do you want some?" He asked, offering the carton to his friend. He didn't really want to share, but it was the polite thing to do.

"No; thank you." Chloé stretched, "Don't you know how bad that is for you?"

The smaller blond shrugged. He didn't really care. It's not like he was in any danger of becoming overweight.

The older man folded the paper, setting it on the coffee table. "Are you ready for tomorrow night?"

Michel sighed. He was very much not looking forward to the following night's mission. It was so humiliating to be forced into girl's clothes. "As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

"You've got the story straight?"

"My name is Nora. I'm at the café with my friend from school. Yuki is that friend. We go to St Luke's and we're on a holiday with our families. Yuki's name is Katsu and we're sort of dating." Here he blushed lightly, the blush spreading at a soft noise of discontent from Free's direction.

Chloé smirked at Free. "Don't like that idea much, ja?"

Free glared at him, scowling slightly. "I do not like the idea of this mission at all. It seems unnecessarily dangerous." He didn't like the thought of Michel, whom Chloé had insisted made a quite pretty girl, sent into the place from where most of the missing young girls had vanished from. Yuki would be with him, but that thought didn't put him at ease. The boys would not be in mission gear; their only method of contact would be cell phones. He didn't like it, it made him uncomfortable, and his last reading had been predicting certain doom.

"I'll be fine, Free." Michel said softly, the ice cream momentarily forgotten and melting in its tub, "I can handle it. I know what I need to do, I know Yuki will have my back and I know all of you will be waiting for the signal."

"Don't worry so much, Free. We won't let the chibi down." It was the first thing Ken had said since Michel had entered the room and he didn't even bother to look up when he said it.

"Just because you've been doing this longer than the rest of us doesn't mean we don't know what we're doing." Chloé commented as he rose from the sofa, "Have we ever let a teammate down before?"

"Nein." Free responded quietly, "But I still do not like it."

Chloé smiled at him, "It'll be fine," and strode out of the room, newspaper tucked under his arm.

"Free?" Michel set the melting ice cream on the coffee table and turned fully to face the man, "You really needent worry so much. I can handle any mission we're given."

Free looked at him for a moment, as if he wanted to memorize his face. He stared hard, searching those grey-green eyes, taking in soft features framed by unruly curls. He peered into those eyes, memorizing the face that was already firmly etched into his mind, studying the boy that he'd known even before he knew himself. One hand rose slowly -he wasn't even conscious of what he was doing- and caressed soft skin. As he cradled the little blond's cheek, he was seized with a sudden fear. Something bad was going to happen.

Michel started, not expecting such an intimate touch. Free's hand jerked back and Michel ducked his head, blushing brightly. What was that? He could still feel that gentle touch on his face, the older man's skin against his. He thought wildly for a moment that he shouldn't have reacted as he did; that Free might have kissed him if he'd just stayed still. Then he remembered that Ken was in the room and blushed all over again.

"I'm not only worried about the mission." Free said quietly, "You've not been yourself lately." He was worried. Very worried. Michel's lack of appetite and the constant sleepy look on his face were more than enough to concern him. The dark circles beneath his eyes and the paleness of his skin only increased the concern.

"School is tough this year." Michel felt a burning shame at lying so blatantly to his best friend, but then…It wasn't really a lie. Not totally, any way. School was difficult, but not for the reasons he meant. He wanted to tell Free everything, but he couldn't make his mouth work. It just wouldn't come out.

"You don't talk to me anymore." The man tried not to make it sound like an accusation, but he couldn't help the way it came out.

Michel looked at him for a moment, expression carefully neutral. "I'm sorry." He said softly, and he was. He certainly was sorry for many things, the least of which was his inability to talk about his problems.

Free's gaze flickered towards Ken, who was still absorbed in his game, then back to Michel. "We probably should not talk here anyway." He stated plainly, knowing the Japanese man most likely wasn't as distracted as he appeared. After so many years in their line of business, there was no way Ken could zone out so completely.

"I don't want to talk." The little blond snapped and instantly regretted it. No matter how upset he was, there was no reason to be rude, especially to Free.

"Michel…" Free reached a hand towards him again, brows knit with worry.

This time, the teen jerked back, expecting it. His eyes widened and he hugged himself, hunching up as small as possible. "Don't make me talk…Please, Free; don't make me." He whispered, eyes squeezing shut.

"Michel," Free was at a loss, "It is not my intention to make you do anything." He hesitated for a moment, then reached out, pulling the boy into a protective embrace. He felt that tiny body tense against his and bit his lip, wondering if he should let go. In one split second, however, the tension was gone and Michel burrowed close, face buried in Free's chest.

"I'm sorry." His soft voice was muffled, "I'm so sorry. But I can't talk about it right now." His shoulders were shaking; Free could feel his small body trembling. This was what he'd been fearing for weeks. He'd known that the second something like this happened, he would be a mess. Free had that kind of effect on him. He could talk to Yuki -and it almost always lead to crying- but he knew that no words would come out when Free asked the same questions.

"You do not have to talk now." Free's fingers stroked the blond curls beneath his hand, "It's all right. If you need to cry, by all means, cry." No matter how much this made his heart ache; no matter how much he wanted to help, this had to end on Michel's terms. Free wouldn't force a discussion; he would not push the boy into talking before he was ready.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry!" Michel was crying now as he repeated the apology over and over again. He was clinging to Free; face still pressed up against his shirt. He wanted to explain what he was apologizing for, but he couldn't seem to get any other words out. He just continued sobbing into Free's shirt.

Free didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say. He wasn't going to tell Michel it was okay, because it obviously wasn't. If it were okay, the little blond wouldn't be sobbing hysterically into his chest. He wouldn't say he understood either. He had no clue what the hell was going on; all he knew was that Michel was in pain and there wasn't much he could do about it.

So he held the boy silently, letting him cry and apologize, and feeling terribly out of his league.

It was when he started hiccupping, when Free's shirt felt particularly damp against his face, that Michel pulled back. He looked up at Free, eyes wide and brimming with tears, face damp and pink. They looked at one another for a moment, then Michel hugged him fiercely, thin arms wrapped around Free in a vice-like grip. He rested his cheek against Free's chest, tears drying on his face; the hiccups coming uncontrollably as he calmed down.

The room was suddenly silent, save for the sound of the hiccups, which seemed to resound, echoing off the walls. It took Michel a moment to realize Ken had paused the game and was studying him intently. Michel peered back at him, sniffling pathetically, his cute-sad expression only being heightened by the gasping hiccups.

"I'll get you a glass of water." The brunet offered, unfurling from his hunched up position in front of the still-glowing television. He rose, stretching, and glancing at Free. Michel watched as they had a quick discussion with their eyes, wondering what it was all about. Then Free nodded and Ken ambled out of the room.

"Thank-" a hiccup- "you, Ken." The words sounded faint and faraway, even though they were coming from his mouth. Michel watched the broad back retreating, feeling rather detached from the whole scene.

"Michel."

His head jerked up at the sound of Free's voice. He stared up at the man, staring into those dark eyes. His mouth opened to respond, but nothing came out and he was sure he had the vacant, wide-eyed expression of a bass. Free reached forward, touching his hair and brushing it back from his face. Michel hiccupped. Again.

"Are you all right?"

He nodded, still uncertain as to whether or not his voice would wobble were he to try and speak. Where that had come from, he was uncertain. He had been happy one moment, enjoying his ice cream; the next moment, he'd been sobbing uncontrollably. "I don't…know." He finally found his voice, it coming no louder than a whisper.

"You do not know if you are okay?" Free pulled him close again, and Michel burrowed into his warmth.

"I don't know why I was crying…" Michel sighed softly, relaxing into the embrace and hiccupping again. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, as another little hiccup-spasm shook through his body.

"You don't need a reason to cry." Ken had appeared back in the room, the promised glass of water and a box of tissues in his hands. Michel looked at him, surprised, and he offered a winning smile in return. "We've all had shitty lives. If that's not enough of a reason to bawl your eyes out, I dunno what is." Here he thrust the glass at Michel, who took it silently, and tossed the box of tissues on the couch. "You'd better blow your nose. You must be all snuffley now and I don't you to keep me awake snoring tonight." He teased.

The little blond managed a smile at Ken's attempt, his face half-hidden behind the opaque glass as he drank. He really was well cared for here, so why did he feel as if he were alone all the time? It certainly didn't make any sense and his emotions were too frayed to think on it at the moment.

Ken took the time to pat his head in a sign of brotherly affection, then plopped unceremoniously down on the floor and unpaused his game. Life began again, ironically, with the computerized sounds of Ken destroying things. The surreal feeling of the past half hour lifted and time regained it's normal pace. Michel pulled out of Free's embrace, dutifully blowing his nose and tossing the used tissues in the trash bin beneath the end table. He felt better; all the tears had helped.

He was also extremely tired.

"You aren't planning on going anywhere, are you?" He asked Free, voice soft and unsure. The man blinked at him and shook his head, which Michel took as an open invitation. He curled on his side, Free's lap making a suitable pillow, and yawned. One of Free's hands resumed petting his hair and he felt his eyelids drooping. "Never leave me…"

He never was quite sure if he'd actually said that or not. Years later, when he was much older and wiser, he still pondered over whether or not he'd actually made the request. Neither Free nor Ken ever mentioned it, but Michel was certain the childish plea of a fourteen year old boy wouldn't have been taken lightly by two men who had lost so much themselves. Or perhaps he'd merely thought it to himself and had never spoken the words.

Free had continued stroking blond curls, long after Michel fell asleep. He had no intention of ever leaving, not so long as his young friend still needed him. Not while he still owed Michel so much; still had to make up for destroying his happy life with a real family. Not until they didn't need each other any more.

He didn't want to think about that inevitability.


	10. Chapter 9

It had taken over an hour. Chloé took it upon himself to pose as Michel's beautician, fussing over his hair and -Michel cringed at the thought- showing him how to apply makeup. Why the man was even knowledgeable in the art of makeup application was a question Michel was afraid to ask; he feared the answer might leave him a bit more disturbed than he already felt.

First and foremost, he'd been forced into the humiliating clothes. The fact that he picked them out himself didn't make him any more comfortable; in a way, it almost made him less so. But on went the plaid skirt, the stripped tee-shirt and knee socks and a pair of black Converse All-Stars, a size too big, courtesy of Yuki. A multitude of jelly bracelets and a necklace bearing a rather gothic-looking cross were added to the outfit at Chloé's insistence and Michel wondered how he could possibly keep up with his own fashion and know so much about teen trends at the same time.

His curls had been straightened; his hair sprayed a purpley-black color. That alone had the most time and had surprising results. Straightening his hair made if much longer; it hung almost to his shoulders and his bangs fell in his eyes more so than usual.

Chloé then proceeded to coat his fingernails with black polish, the smell of which left Michel light-headed. How girls could put themselves through this every day was beyond him. He refused any makeup beyond what Chloé deemed "necessary" and tried to keep from squirming as the Romanian man prodded at his face. This had to be the worst, the most humiliating, the most horrifying experience of his life.

But it worked as it was supposed to. When he was allowed to look in the mirror, he found a stranger staring back at him; a stranger with dark hair and smoky eyes -by appearance a girl- her mouth turned down in a pout, expression brooding.

Michel could hardly believe he was looking at himself.

As he gaped at himself in the mirror, he could see Chloé's reflection smirking at him. He frowned at the man, scowling over his shoulder, and turned to storm out of the bathroom, then paused, suddenly remembering that the second he stepped out the door, every one else would see him.

He much rather would have hide somewhere in the spacious bathroom than go out and face certain humiliation.

Chloé, unfortunately, wasn't giving him much of a choice.

-----

Yuki gaped as Chloé ushered Michel out of the bathroom, one hand on his shoulder in order to keep him from bolting. Michel was blushing like crazy, his head lowered, and staring at the carpeting of the hall. Chloé was smirking; Yuki knew he was enjoying the fact that Michel was so miserable and he'd had a hand in it.

The little blond truly did make a convincing girl. Chloé had been right. Michel was thin and just hippy enough to play the role of a very flat-chested girl. The clothes clung to him in the right places and his face was sweet enough that he was already mistaken for a girl on a regular basis. Yuki felt bad for him; it was a terrible fate to be mistaken for some one of the opposite gender. He was glad he wound up masculine enough that no one could make the same mistake.

Of course, Michel's typical state of dress didn't do much to dissuade outsiders from seeing him as a girl anyway.

Free was frowning. Scowling, actually. He was glaring daggers at Chloé, who Yuki thought was enjoying himself far too much. The older of the two blonds hadn't stopped grinning since the second he'd appeared in Yuki's line of vision.

Chloé seemed oblivious to the pointed glare fixed on him as he pushed Michel towards Yuki, who was already decked out in his disguise. It wasn't actually that bad…Black pants full of zippers -he'd removed the "bondage straps," as they had potential to be dangerous during a mission- and a black hoodie, his hair mussed even more than usual and spiked in the back a little. Not so different from his usual clothing.

Maybe this wasn't going to be so painful after all.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Yuki knew he'd been far too optimistic.

"You make a wonderful couple." Chloé smirked.

-----

The Autumn Café was positively packed. A small cyber café on a side street downtown, it was a popular hangout spot for London's teens. Yuki frequented the place on his afternoons off. He said it was trendy and inexpensive, so none of them had been surprised when it had shown up on the news as one of the teen hangouts being targeted by their current targets.

Michel had never been there before; he preferred much more stimulating activities when he was out. He did enjoy surfing the internet and "meeting" people in far away places, but he felt that it was simply something he could do at home, not something to be done when he went out.

Therefore, he was incredibly surprised by the sheer number of adolescents crammed into the place. There were packs of nerds on the computers; couples making out in the booths. Michel had never seen anything like it and he wondered why on earth any one would ever desire to spend time in such a place.

One look at a table full of chattering girls scarfing down soggy French fries and drinking some highly-caffeinated soft drink left him positively certain they weren't there for the food. Other teens were shoveling in food that looked to be in a similar state -- greasy, messy and undoubtedly terrible for those who were consuming it.

The stale smell of over-used grease hovered in the air, noticeable only after one filtered out the overpowering stench of aftershave, cologne and perfume. The pungent, artificial smell made Michel feel light-headed; it was nothing like the actual scents of the flowers with which the fragrances shared their names. Combined with the smell of the deep-fried food, the heady scent of the perfume was making him a little nauseous.

Michel felt incredibly out of place as he followed Yuki through the crowds to a back booth. The dark-haired boy prowled between tables with practiced ease, looking surprisingly at home among the computer nerds hunched over the consoles and the punks hidden in shadowed corners, sipping chai and looking bored.

Even with his limited awareness of social systems and the like, Michel could easily pick out which people grouped together. First there were prep school students, clumped in the booths and at tables; the boys with their arms draped over the backs of the seats, looking as if they owned the place, the girls simpering over the boys. Then there were the nerds, clumps of boys, mostly, who were huddled around the computers, probably playing World of Warcraft or Guild Wars or one of those other games Yuki was so fond of. Lastly, there were knots of goths and punks, circled around their tables, steaming mugs and clove cigarettes in their hands.

Yuki nodded at a few people as they passed by and Michel couldn't help noticing that a girl sitting near one of the boys Yuki nodded at had a deck of Tarot cards spread on the table before her. For a moment, the blond wanted to stop and speak to her; here at last was something of which he had a basic understanding. Free had done loads of readings for him and he could sort of decipher meaning from the cards.

He must have paused for a moment, watching her, and he started when he felt Yuki tugging at his sleeve. The girl raised dark, kohl-lined eyes to look at him and he blushed softly, offering her a weak smile. Yuki nodded at her and she raised a hand in greeting, her expression flickered momentarily into something that might have been some semblance of a smile.

"Hey there, Kuroshi." She murmured, "Long time, no see."

"I've been busy." Yuki's voice was low-key and monotone. He squeezed Michel's arm, signaling that he would keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him.

"With her?" The Tarot-reader raised a brow, her dark gaze shifting towards Michel. She looked him up and down critically and he flushed, feeling even more self-conscious in the stupid skirt.

"You could say that." Yuki replied smoothly, his grip on Michel's wrist never wavering. He wasn't going to willingly offer any information; that's not how things worked in this world and he did not want Michel to say anything until he understood this.

"You never struck me as the type to be involved with a girl." She sneered, scooping up and shuffling her cards. Her eyes were still glued to Michel; he could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck and he squirmed nervously under the gaze.

"Friend from school." The American teen shrugged, "We see each other, yeah, but we're not really dating."

"Is that so?" She started to lay another spread, "She have a handle?"

"She doesn't play."

At this point, Michel was royally confused. It took him a moment to remember that the "she" they were referring to was him and even then he still wasn't certain what they meant. What the hell were they talking about? A "handle"? What did that mean? Play what? And since when was Yuki able to lie with such ease? Michel was amazed at the way Yuki slid effortlessly from one fabrication to another.

He suspected he was in a bit over his head here.

"Not into that sort of thing, is she?"

Yuki scowled. "You're being nosy tonight, Raven." He accused softly, tugging Michel along as he started to walk away.

The blond could feel her eyes following them as Yuki dragged him to a corner table. He shuddered involuntarily, creeped out by the whole experience. He slid into the booth when Yuki gave him a pointed look, green eyes curious, and was about to open his mouth when Yuki cut him off.

"I don't really _know_ her, if that's what you're going to ask. She plays Guild Wars and we've done missions together. We don't even know each other's real names. That's how it is here." He shrugged, flagging down a waitress and ordering them both green tea.

"So Kuroshi…" Michel began slowly.

"Is the name I go by on Guild Wars. And before you ask, it loosely translates to 'black death'. Hers is Raven Rising. It's kind of confusing," He shrugged, "But I'm a gamer. That's how we do things."

Michel gave him a strange look, having never encountered this side of Yuki before. It was a very different Yuki than the one whom he worked with everyday. He wondered vaguely if Yuki was ashamed to be a part of this; if that was why he preferred to go out alone when he had time off. At home, the American presented himself as an intelligent, quiet individual who favored solitude to companionship, a sort of smaller version of Aya, chock-full of teenage angst.

But here, many people seemed to know him. He seemed at home and at ease, as if this was someplace he belonged, rather than at the shop. This idea left Michel feeling a little hurt; was he the only one who didn't know this part of Yuki existed? He had thought they were friends.

"That girl…She had Tarot cards." He said softly, peering at Yuki, who merely sipped his tea.

"Don't worry; she only thinks she can read them. Or maybe she can, but she's nowhere near as good as Free, anyway." Yuki snorted indelicately, setting his cup down, "She only bothers with me because I'm part Japanese and she likes anime. Other than that, I'd be just another nameless nerd to her. She's not too bad though. Better than most of the other losers here…" At this, the dark-haired boy trailed off, his spectacled gaze following the movement of a person yet unknown to Michel.

His gaze flickered after Yuki's, searching for who it was that his friend had so suddenly gotten caught up in, and came to rest on a pale boy with nearly waist-length hair. The boy was wearing a fitted, deep blue shirt with sleeves that hung to his fingertips and a pair of flared brown trousers. He flicked his hair casually over his shoulder as he slid fluidly into a chair, a book and a cup of tea already arranged on the table before him.

The blond glanced back at Yuki, who seemed to be stuck in some sort of trance as he stared at the solitary figure. He smiled knowingly to himself, amused at Yuki's blatant gawking. This, he knew, was Haku, the Japanese boy on whom Yuki had a terrible crush. Michel had spoken to him once, asking his name and mentioning his friend, and he knew Yuki was far too shy to ever speak to him on his own.

"Go talk to him." He said softly, smiling at Yuki, "I can wait here. This is your chance; look, he's all by himself."

"I can't go over there!" Yuki hissed, his gaze never leaving the contented face of the mysterious Haku, "I'm not going to make a fool of myself!"

"You need to try…" Michel frowned at him, "What if he's _the _one? If you never speak with him, you'll never know. You might miss your one chance at true love."

Yuki scowled. "Stop talking shit. I don't believe in all that garbage. And anyway, if he is the person I'm supposed to be with -not that I believe in that- won't it happen even if I don't go make an ass out of myself in front of all these people?" He folded his arms across his chest, blushing furiously, and glared at the tabletop as if it had offended him in some way.

"Stop being a coward and go. He asked me about you, if you'll recall. At the very least, I imagine he'd be happy to have you as a friend." Michel stirred some honey into his tea, carefully watching his friend's expression. He had always known Yuki to be shy and particularly withdrawn; this was why he felt the compelling need to give the other boy little nudges every now and then.

"Fine!" Yuki scowled, "I'll go! You stay put here." Muttering to himself and -much to his chagrin- blushing again, the American slid out of the booth began weaving his way through the crowd to Haku's table, hands crammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

Michel sat back in the very corner of the booth, curled up against the wall, teacup close at hand. Once he was comfortable and sure he was able to watch all those around him, he dug his cell phone out of his messenger bag.

No missed calls; no voice mails. Not surprising. The phone was mostly for contacting other members of the team when they were out on deliveries or such and Michel never got social calls. It didn't bother him, really. He had his teammates -his family- and they were what mattered, not all of the other young people who didn't want to be his friends anyway.

He had promised Aya he or Yuki would text message him every now and then, especially if they saw anything suspicious. The rest of the team was doing surveillance in strategic places outside the building, but there were ways for people to get in without looking particularly shifty to outsiders. The messages were to be short, to the point, and Michel's small fingers easily tapped "everything is fine" into the phone's tiny screen.

He hit "send" and tossed the phone back into his bag. There was a book in there as well, a compilation of Edgar Allen Poe's poetry, which Chloé had assured him the angsting, gloomy teenage girl he was portraying would be sure to read.

Feigning interest in the book was a good way to keep an eye on every one, he reasoned. He opened it to a random page, leaning back against the wall again, and pretended to read it, all the while peering over the top of the book, no one the wiser to his practiced espionage.

It was interesting, watching the way the other teens interacted. For all he felt himself to still be a child, Michel knew he was much more mature than all the youths surrounding him. They hadn't lost their families when they were small. They didn't work for a living. They hadn't seen the horrible things which he had seen.

Maybe it was because of this that Michel felt like he knew something they didn't. A world of difference set him apart from other children; he had known that for a long time. He wasn't sure how to interact with them or how to be one of them. Not that he particularly wanted to be like them, mind you, but he did often wonder what it would be like to be a normal teenager. What would it be like to only have school and friends to worry about? What would life be like without the added weight of taking lives? Their semblance of normalcy was just that - an illusion. The guilt was still there; they all knew it, no matter how normal they managed to make themselves feel. It never really went away.

He was sort of glad he'd been forced into drag for this particular mission. There were people around the café that looked vaguely familiar. Some of the girls might have come to the shop before; he wasn't sure. He was certain, however, that a few of the preppy boys attended his school and it was making him edgy. Fortunately, no one seemed to recognize him, so the costume seemed to be working. Thank God for small miracles.

He sipped his tea absently. They brewed it decently, although it was nothing like the herbal teas Chloé and Free drank. Chloé liked the fruity kinds -cranberry, apple cinnamon, almond and berry- and they left the kitchen smelling wonderfully fragrant. Free's were stronger; black, green and ginseng. Sometimes chai. They were spicy and exotic and neither of them had been sure he would like any of them the first time he had curiously asked Free for a taste. The black tea had been a bit much -Michel was the type to load his tea with sugar or honey- but he liked the other flavors well enough. And the tea at home was so much more expensive than the tea at the café.

As the sweet, scalding liquid burned its way down his throat, he peered around the café once more, scanning for both familiar and suspicious faces. A new group of preps was just being seated and he nearly choked when he realized that Thomas was among them.

He fumbled with the cup, nearly spilling green tea down his shirt, and managed to steady his hand at the last minute. He set the cup down, mossy gaze still glued to the bulky form of his tormenter. Thomas scared him. The logical part of his brain told him that he himself was far more dangerous than the hulking boy, but there had been too much abuse at times which he could do nothing to prevent this abuse. He certainly couldn't attack Thomas at school; even if he claimed self-defense it would be too bizarre. There was no way any one would believe that some one with his tiny build could really best some one like Thomas.

Old fears were enough to keep him from trying in public. Old fears were enough to leave him worried that Thomas might recognize him. If Thomas realized it was him hidden away in that corner booth…If Thomas found out…He didn't want to think about it; God he did not want to think about it. He still wasn't positive that Thomas would refrain from raping him, given the chance. The very thought made Michel shudder; he didn't want any of Thomas Kenyon's body parts anywhere near any of his body parts. Thomas swore on his life that he was as straight as a man could be, but he would undoubtedly do whatever it took to prove that Michel was indeed just as big a fag as they all claimed he was.

Knowing the person who had the most power to harm him was in the room made Michel twitchy. He kept glancing nervously between his book and Thomas, trying not to look like he was staring as he watched his classmate. He swore that Thomas glanced his way a couple times and he felt his heart leap into his throat each time that cruel, calculating gaze flickered towards him.

He was beginning to lose his composure. The longer he watched Thomas…The more he heard that grating laugh…He was beginning to slip in and out of reality; memories plagued him in brief flashes with heart-stopping vividness. There was nothing he could do to stop it. No way to keep the recollections from coming as they slid through his head; molten lava burning his brain and causing a prickling feeling behind his eyes.

He wiped furiously at the tears that were suddenly clouding his vision. He was on a mission, dammit! He couldn't let anything cause him to lose focus and forget his purpose for being in this noisy, dark place. He couldn't get distracted and he couldn't fail. Every one was counting on him and he still had to make up for his failure during the last mission.

He dropped his gaze back down to the pages of the Poe, book, taking a few deep breaths and trying to clear his mind. He pressed a hand over his eyes for a moment, forcing the bad thoughts from his head. Focus. Must focus. The mission iswhat's important right now.

"Hey, you're new here, aren't you?"

It took him a moment to realize some one was talking to him. It took another moment -as his head jerked up and his eyes widened in something akin to terror- to realize that the some one was Thomas.


	11. Chapter 10

This chapter is the climax of the story. As such, it contains many, many **crude words** and **sexual harassment.** Some vomit as well. You have been warned.

-----

Time slowed to a crawl, then stopped entirely.

Michel stared up at Thomas, eyes wide, mouth gaping open. He swore his heart had leapt into his throat. He could feel it beating there; threatening to close off his throat and suffocate him. His hands were clenched tightly around the Edgar Allen Poe book, his grip so strong his knuckles were white. He had an incredible urge to tug the skirt down lower so not so much of his legs were exposed. To throw what was left of his tea in the larger boy's face, hopefully scalding him so he could make a getaway.

He glanced away. Yuki and Haku had vanished; the table the long-haired boy had been at was empty. There was no way to alert Yuki and get aid. No way he could pull out his phone and alert Free of his troubles. Besides, stubborn pride would have kept him from doing so anyway. He had never bothered to tell any of his teammates what happened to him at school and he didn't particularly want to spill the beans now.

He was on his own.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

At the harsh tone of Thomas' voice, Michel forced himself to focus. Forced his heart rate to slow; his breathing to return to normal. He was playing the role of a girl already; he could feign ignorance as well, pretend he didn't know Thomas. Pretend nothing had ever happened between them.

He hitched up his chin, looking back up into watery brown eyes. "I'm sorry." He uttered, "I hadn't realized." He tried to keep a bored tone. He blinked and he could feel his lashes fluttering, aware of them for the first time. Chloé had put something…Mascara. It was supposed to make them longer. And now was a silly time to be thinking of that, but Michel simply couldn't help it.

Thomas studied him, brown gaze relentless. For a moment, he thought the other boy recognized and was trying to place him. He thought perhaps his eyes would give him away; there weren't too many people in London with the same green-grey eyes as he had. But no; Thomas wasn't quite that intelligent.

"Are you new here?" The taller boy asked, sliding uninvited into the other side of the booth.

Michel nodded. "I've never been here before." He said plainly, fingers twirling the near-empty tea cup absently.

Thomas scrutinized him a moment longer and Michel found himself fighting to keep from squirming. Instead, he stared at the larger boy, looking at him, really, for the first time. Thomas wasn't exactly ugly, nor was he handsome. He had a thatch of dark hair, some color between brown and black, and watery brown eyes. His skin was pale and freckled; he looked like there might have been a bit of Irish in him somewhere. Michel remembered Brandon and their father having the same fair-skinned, befreckled appearance. He vaguely recalled that Brandon burned easily and for this reason hated being out in the sun for long periods of time. Michel didn't question his own tan skin and fair hair; it was probably better not knowing where it came from. But he was getting sidetracked.

Thomas had expensive clothes. It showed in the quality of his uniform and now in his casual clothes. Everything was designer; Chloé would be proud. Although…Thomas didn't wear it nearly as well as Chloé did. He just looked like a kid trying to wear his father's clothes. Overall, he wasn't unattractive, but he certainly wasn't some one Michel would ever find himself attracted to. Period.

"You're pretty cute."

Thomas' voice dragged him back into the here and now and he found himself blushing involuntarily. Cute? Thomas thought he was _cute!_ Even though he was supposed to be a girl at the moment, it was still creepy. Knowing your worst enemy thinks you're cute is probably the most horrible thing in the world, even if said enemy currently has no idea who you are. He tried not to gape. It would be worse for him if Thomas thought he was some kind of staring idiot.

"Th-thanks." He managed to stammer, though it made his skin crawl to accept the wayward compliment. This was not happening. This couldn't be happening. Thomas Kenyon did not just tell he, Michel, that he was cute, no matter the capacity in which it was said.

"I'm Thomas." Here it was; this was going to be the most humiliating part of the whole ordeal. Michel knew the next thing out of the bastard's mouth was going to be to ask him what his name was and he was **not** looking forwards to sharing a girl's name with his tormentor. "What's your name?"

Inwardly, Michel rolled his eyes. People like Thomas and his cronies were just too predictable. "Nora." He muttered, more to remind himself than to inform Thomas, "My name is Nora."

"Well, Nora…" Thomas paused to drag a hand through his hair, rumpling it, "Since you're here all alone, how'd you like to come sit with me and the boys?" He jerked a thumb towards the cluster of boys he'd come in with. "We could use some company, ya know."

For a moment, Michel had the urge to laugh. How _funny_ it would be, were Thomas to realize he was coming onto a boy when he so steadfastly claimed heterosexuality. Funny, perhaps, in retrospect; but the little blond was positively terrified if Thomas realized that the girl he had just invited to his table were really a boy in drag.

"No." He said softly, "No; thank you. I'm quite alright here. I like being alone."

One of Thomas' thick brows rose. "It wasn't a suggestion. We come here for more than just the tea, if you know what I mean." The taller teen's voice had grown cold, his tone no-nonsense, "So you'd better get your cute little ass over there."

There was a moment of silence as Michel stared at him, green eyes wide. How could any one possibly treat another human being like that? Especially a girl…He wondered if this was how Thomas regarded all women; like they were his property and he could boss them around. What of his mother? Was she treated with the same disrespect? Did he have a sister? He felt his stomach turn once. Thomas really was a sick bastard.

And he wasn't going to take it any more.

"Get the hell away from me!" He hissed, eyes uncharacteristically narrowing, "I'm not some little toy for you! Mother o' Christ; I'm so sick of you." He began gathering his things, intent on hunting down Yuki, and pushed his way past Thomas, who looked a little stunned at the wiry girl's boldness.

In his haste to be rid of Thomas, Michel forgot an important rule. _Never turn your back on an enemy_. Regret came swiftly as a large hand caught him by the wrist, twisting his arm.

-----

Yuki was socially awkward, to say the least.

He had shuffled nervously over to the table where Haku sat, hands crammed in his pockets. Haku was happily oblivious, sipping his tea, small hands wrapped around the cup, hair cascading over his shoulders and down his back. A small, peaceful smile lit his face and he hummed softly to himself.

Yuki paused a foot or so away from the table, enchanted, just watching. His mouth felt dry; as if it was stuffed full of cotton balls. He swallowed. God, what the hell was he doing? This was such a stupid idea; he had no clue what he was supposed to say to Haku or how he would get his mouth working again so he even could say it, were he confident in what to say.

He blushed as Haku suddenly looked up, brown gaze meeting his own. The other boy's cheeks pinked slightly and he lowered his head, face hidden behind a curtain of silky hair.

"You are Yuki, ne?" A soft voice came from behind the waterfall of hair.

"Y…yeah." Somehow, Yuki managed to get his voice unstuck from his throat, "Can…Can I sit down?" He asked hesitantly.

Haku nodded and Yuki slid into the seat across from him. The slightly-smaller boy's dark head rose and they looked at one another for a moment, silent. Haku was rather beautiful; all dark hair and contrasting pale skin, cheeks tinged pale pink, lips parted slightly. Yuki didn't think there was any way he could possibly have a chance with some one so attractive; just being near Haku made him feel plain and boring.

"Would you like something to drink?" Haku asked politely, slowly twirling his near-empty cup between his fingers. Yuki's friend had said he was nice and Haku usually wasn't so awkward around other people, but for some reason he felt particularly jumpy and nervous.

"No thanks." Yuki stared awkwardly at the tabletop, trying to think of something intelligent to say. "I hope Michel didn't bother you too much the other day."

"Bother me?" The brown-eyed boy smiled softly, "Iie; it was nice to have some company. Usually, no one speaks to me, and if they do, they always comment on my accent." He sighed softly, "Or how polite my English is."

It was then that Yuki noticed how pronounced and deliberate Haku's English was, as if he was trying very hard to make a conscious effort to say each word correctly. It reminded him vaguely of Ken, who's English was still rather atrocious. Or maybe Michel, who's English, on the other hand, was prim and proper. He still referred to Yuki's Americanized English as "gutter talk" from time to time and chided him for teaching Ken improper language. "Do you miss being able to speak in Japanese all the time?" He asked curiously.

Haku nodded. "Only my mother and father and I can have a conversation in Japanese. I do not know any one else here who can speak it." He paused, looking hopeful, "Do you?"

Yuki shook his head softly. "Not very well…" He frowned for a moment, wishing he could be more helpful, then grinned as a thought occurred to him, "You should come visit me at work sometime. I bet Ken'd be happy to have some one to speak in Japanese with. His English is terrible."

A shy smile crossed the other boy's face. "Where do you work?" He fiddled with the teacup some more, "And who is Ken?"

Yuki felt his heart skip a beat at that smile and he blushed a little. Haku was cute. And not as hard to talk to as he thought he'd be. He wasn't quite as tongue-tied any more and he'd managed to sound somewhat like he knew what he was talking about. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

-----

Michel was not quite as big of a pushover as every one thought he was. Even though he panicked for a moment when Thomas' hand closed around his arm, he wasn't about to stand there passively and do as the larger boy told him to. Thomas might have been bigger than him, but he was a trained assassin, dammit, and if he couldn't get away from a stupid bully, he didn't deserve to be an assassin.

He started to squirm out of the older boy's grasp, but Thomas tightened his grip, twisting Michel's arm around behind his back and causing him to whimper in pain as he heard something pop. It didn't hurt quite like it was broken -or even dislocated- but people's appendages simply weren't meant to be in such a position. Thomas had an iron grip around his forearm and his fingers only tightened more as Michel looked up at him, eyes wide.

_Don't cry_, he ordered himself, _Don't let him see your fear. _That was rule number two. An adversary can never see your emotions; don't make yourself appear more vulnerable. He scowled at the taller teen, trying again to tug away from his captor and wincing as beefy fingers dug firmly into his arm. "Let me go." He hitched up his chin, glaring right into hard brown eyes as if daring Thomas to try something.

"I don't think so, bitch." The other boy spat out cruelly, "You've pissed me off and the boys and I are going to have to teach you a lesson now." He lumbered towards his cronies, tugging Michel after him, and the smaller boy was forced to stumble along in his wake, unwilling to try to free himself for fear of his arm being torn from its socket.

Of Thomas' four friends, only two of them looked vaguely familiar to Michel. There was Daniel, a tall, wiry boy with sandy hair, dark brown eyes and a rather sadistic sense of humor. He was the one who most often joined Thomas in tormenting Michel and the sight of him made the smaller boy even more nervous. Nathan he knew as well; Yuki had picked a fight with him once or twice while defending Michel from verbal attacks. The other two he didn't know; one was short and stocky with sticking up reddish hair and the other was average everything, right down to his brown hair and eyes.

Michel couldn't help feeling a bit like a lamb being thrown to the wolves.

"This fucking little bitch was mouthing off to me."

He snapped to attention at the sound of Thomas' voice. He stared defiantly at all the boys as they murmured amongst themselves about women not knowing their place in the world, his anger mounting at their cruel, uncalled for words. These were terrible, terrible people and he didn't understand how any one could live like that.

_They're like your parents,_ A little voice in the back of his mind reminded him, _These are the kind of people your parents were. And Brandon. They were hateful for no real reason other than differences. And, God, you could have grown up to be just like them._ The thought made him shiver. His throat tightened. He remembered his parents as loving and kind, but he was older now. He knew better; his parents had not been quite so wonderful. They were no better than Thomas and his friends.

"So, boys, what should we do with her?" Thomas leered at Michel, who refused to wilt under the gaze. He stared back, eyes storming grey, free hand clenched in a fist at his side. He knew what he must have looked like to them, a short little wanna-be goth girl who couldn't get away when trouble came calling. Michel had never hated anybody in his life, but at that moment he hated Thomas Kenyon more than anything in the world.

One of the boys Michel didn't know arched a brow, gazing intently at him, expression shrewd and calculating. "I can think of a few things to do with a little tart like this." He smirked, "I mean, what did she expect, wearing a skirt like that?" His brown gaze slid down Michel's body, coming to a stop somewhere near the hem of the skirt, and the smaller boy blushed, fingers itching to tug the bottom of it down again. Chloé would pay for this.

He was so busy being annoyed with Chloé over the damn skirt that the implication of the unknown boy's suggestion took a moment to fully sink in. As it dawned on him what the larger boy meant -he wanted to violate him!- his face flushed crimson and he shrank back. Oh God, what would he do when they realized he was a boy? Would they carry out this course of action anyway and sodomize him? He felt ill at the thought.

He wanted to stop them, but he was paralyzed with fear. The logical part of his brain was -again- telling him that he could take them, but the rest of his mind wasn't listening. Fight-or-Flight was kicking in and his mind was screaming at him to run. Not only were they bigger than him, there were _five_ of them and he was just one tiny little being. They seemed to tower over him as the surrounded him, glaring down at him, and Michel prayed that the ground would open and swallow him up. Hell would be better than this.

"I like the way you think, Andrew." Thomas smirked, "We should make the little whore do what she's best at. I'd like to see what that saucy mouth can do besides back-talk." He grabbed a hold of Michel's arm again, that iron grip clamping down and leaving the smaller boy wondering how much harder Thomas could squeeze and if his arm would break if he found out.

Michel's heart was pounding in his throat as they hustled him off towards the bathroom, Thomas hissing threats and telling him to keep his mouth shut the whole while. Where the hell had Yuki gone? He was nowhere to be seen. Several times Michel's hand strayed towards his bag; he wanted desperately to pull out his cell phone and get help. To hell with pride; he was in over his head and he wanted some one to come save him. But he knew if they spotted the phone now it would be taken away or trashed and he would have no opportunity to use it.

As nice as the Autumn Café was, the bathroom was grungy and dimly lit. It was the kind of place Michel never would have set foot under normal circumstances; it was just too disgusting. And yet, he was jostled into the stall furthest from the door -the larger, handicapped one- and they circled round him, forcing him into a corner. His fate seemed inescapable when the boy who's name Michel still did not know slide the lock firmly in place.

They stood facing him in a semicircle, Thomas in the middle. Michel looked at them all from where he stood, back pressed up into a corner. He was trying not to tremble, but his thin body shook anyway and his legs felt a bit weak. It was all going to be over the second they realized he had something between his legs that girls didn't and, God, what would they do then, kill him?

Thomas stepped forward. There was no denying that he was the alpha male here; the other four hung on his every word. He glared disdainfully at Michel, a sadistic smile on his face. "Get on your knees, bitch."

Michel stared back at Thomas for a moment, then glanced down at the dirty floor, nose wrinkling in disgust. There was no way he was willingly going to put any part of his body down on that floor. Besides, why should he comply with their demands? They could force him, but he wouldn't make it easy. He looked back up at Thomas, steeling himself against that cruel gaze. "No."

The taller boy's hand shot out so fast he didn't have time to react. Michel's head jerked backwards and tears sprang to his eyes as Thomas' palm connected with his cheek. "I said 'on your knees'!" He grabbed a fistful of Michel's hair, forcing him down roughly.

The Irish boy's teeth clattered together with the force of the shove and he fought for a moment to catch his breath. Pain spiraled up from somewhere in his legs when his knees collided with the tiled floor. Thomas' fingers tightened in his hair, preventing him from moving. He raised his head, wincing at the feel of his hair being pulled. Thomas was fumbling with his zipper with his other hand and Michel jerked his head away when the other boy took _it_ out, ignoring the pain in his scalp as his hair was yanked again.

"Lick it, bitch." Thomas shoved Michel's face down further and he struggled, turning his face away and squeezing his eyes shut. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't do it, no matter what Thomas and company would do to him. It didn't matter; they could do anything they wanted. There was no way in hell he would go down on Thomas.

Another rough shove forced him closer, but he kept his mouth clamped shut and his eyes closed. He could hear Thomas laughing; could hear him commenting to his friends. "Just like that little fag at school. I bet I could force him to give me head too." He laughed again and his cronies snickered, the harsh sounds ringing through Michel's head.

He flushed with shame. It wasn't bad enough that they tormented him at school; they had to talk about him as if he was a worthless piece of rubbish as well. Tears filled his eyes. What had he ever done to deserve this? Wasn't his life hard enough already? Who had he angered for this to be justified? A little part of his mind was nagging at him to just do as they asked so he could get the hell out of there and go die of shame somewhere. At this point, it probably would have been easier. But the rest of him wasn't quite so ready to give up; the very thought of taking Thomas in his mouth made his stomach turn over.

"I gave you an order, you little shit!" Thomas snapped at him, jerking his head up by the hair and forcing Michel to look at him. Dark eyes met frightened green ones and Michel could easily seem the fury in the other boy's gaze. A vein was throbbing in his captor's neck and his lips were drawn back over his teeth in a snarl; Michel wouldn't have been surprised if he started foaming at the mouth. He was angrier than Michel had ever seen him.

"Looks like you can't control the bitch, Thom. Let me have a go at her." Daniel commented, prowling towards the smaller boy and running a hand over part of the pale, exposed leg of their captive, his long fingers traveling dangerously close to the hem of the little plaid skirt. Michel shuddered, trying to escape the touch, but the hand wandered further. Daniel watched in fascination as his hand moved beneath the skirt. He was stroking Michel's underwear-clad ass and the smaller boy prayed to God that he wouldn't try going round the front because then he'd be in deep trouble.

Thomas still had his fingers tangled in Michel's straightened hair. The black spray Chloé had put in his hair was not meant to withstand such abuse and was showering out in tiny flakes. He was crying now and his nose was running. He was sure his face must have been a black-streaked mess. His stomach was still threatening to rebel and when Daniel's fingers ventured beneath his underwear, it was all over.

He tried to swallow, but he couldn't help himself, and before he knew it, he'd thrown up all over Thomas.

"You bitch!" Thomas shrieked, "You fucking bitch!" He sprang back, finally releasing Michel's hair. The other boys were laughing as Michel crumpled to the ground, tears still streaming down his face. Thomas was going to be angry. Thomas was going to _kill_ him.

Ha was dragged back up from the floor by his collar; Thomas was furious and Michel simply didn't have the strength to fight back. He remained limp as Thomas shook him, trying to swallow the bile that was rising again in his throat. The taller boy was screaming obscenities at him and jerking him; he could feel his head snapping back and forth. But he was beginning to turn it all off; the pain and panic were being replaced with the same numb, empty feeling he always experienced when they harassed him at school. It was so much easier this way; why hadn't he done it sooner? It was almost as if he was drifting away…

Feeling returned in an explosion of pain as the back of his skull collided with the bathroom wall. His eyes opened wide for a moment and he blinked, then winced. The lights in the bathroom suddenly seemed entirely too bright and he let his eyes fall shut as Thomas released him and he slid to the floor. He could still hear them talking -"Shit Thomas…I think you really hurt her."- but their voices soon became nothing but a droning buzz. Michel's head swam and he tried to move, but his limbs weren't obeying his brain. Some one gave him one last kick and then there was silence as everything faded to black.


	12. Chapter 11

The light was still too bright.

Michel shut his eyes again immediately after opening them. His head was pounding and his retinas burned with the glaring light. He thought for a moment that he was still in the bathroom at the Autumn Café, as he was unsure how long he'd been out, but he felt as if he were somewhere comfortable. Somewhere soft…

He slit his eyes open again, slowly this time, still blinking against the light. Everything still seemed fuzzy and out of focus. He rubbed an eye, wincing as the movement of his arm sent a spike of pain through his body. _Everything_ ached. The back of his head was throbbing; even blinking hurt. But…

But he was back in his own room, tucked snuggly beneath his down comforter. Some one had changed his clothes; he was in his favorite green and blue striped pajamas. Slowly, he raised a hand and touched his hair. He looked at his fingers. Black-tipped. His hair was still a mess. He wondered if they had at least washed his face.

It was bright in his room. What time was it? How long had he been asleep? A quick glance at his clock told him that it was a little after two in the afternoon. If he'd only been out since last night, that would make it Saturday and every one else would be down in the shop. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but his arms trembled and, anyway, when he moved too much, pain exploded through his skull.

Sighing, Michel slumped back down, closing his eyes again. He felt helpless. How long would everything hurt like this?

And more importantly, what the hell had happened the night before?

He remembered being dragged into the bathroom. He remembered…God, he was so weak. Why hadn't he fought back? He could have done something; he could have protected himself. He should have been able to. He really was useless, wasn't he? And the mission…It must have been totally ruined because of him. They would all be so disappointed…All their hard work, gone to waste. All because of him.

His throat constricted and his chest tightened. He had failed every one. Again. What if they told him he couldn't be part of the team any more? What if they sent him back to the castle, all alone? This was his home; he was with his family. What if they decided he wasn't worth keeping around any more? It would serve him right if they did. This whole mess was his fault, anyway.

He heard the door opened and looked up. Ken was peeping into the room, an unusually serious expression on his face. The serious look, however, was almost instantaneously replaced with one of relief when he realized Michel was awake. "Oh good…You're awake." He stepped more fully into the room, the relief flickering towards a smile but not quite making it to that happy place. "How are you feeling, chibi?"

Michel opened his mouth to answer, but his voice got stuck somewhere in his throat. He wanted to say everything hurt, but there was no sound; nothing coming out. Instead, he stared at Ken, lips still parted slightly, eyes wide. There was nothing; nothing! He couldn't talk…He turned away, shaking his head softly, eyes pooling with tears.

"Hey…" Ken crossed the room, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed, "Hey, it's okay, kiddo." He reached out a hand hesitantly, then seemed to gain more confidence as he pulled the boy into a warm embrace. "We've all been really worried about you." Ken stroked Michel's unruly hair soothingly, not caring about the black mess the spray created on his hands. "Especially Free…He hasn't left your side at all." He nodded towards the other side of the bed and Michel realized for the first time that he'd never been alone; Free was asleep in an uncomfortable looking position on the floor beside the bed.

The realization only caused more tears. How could he ever have felt anything other than love for the man who was currently slumbering restlessly on the floor? He buried his face in Ken's chest, thin arms wrapped tightly around him, and began to cry in earnest.

Ken simply held him, letting him cry and stroking his back. He'd weathered enough of Omi's breakdowns in the past to know that the best course of action would be to simply let the teen cry it out. Then maybe they could talk.

It was because of Ken's experiences comforting Omi that Aya had elected him as the one to take care of Michel when he awoke. All of them were worried about the boy, of course, but Yuki, Aya and Chloe weren't exactly sure how to handle the emotional train wreck he would undoubtedly be upon waking. Ken and Omi had been closest in age and closer to one another than they had been with either Aya or Yohji and the brunet had learned best how to handle small, crying blonds.

So he had been elected to be the one to look in on the slumbering boy from time to time, checking on him until he woke up. They had closed the shop for the day in order to be there for him when he was awake, and were currently in various places around the apartment, trying to distract themselves until the moment Michel awoke.

Free had refused, of course, to leave his friend's side. It had become clear that he was in dire need of sleep somewhere around noon; he'd been awake for over twenty-four straight hours. As determined as he was to stay awake until Michel was awake, there was simply no way he was going to manage it and they all knew it. Chloe had tried to gently persuade him to go to bed; Aya had tried ordering it, all to no avail. Aya had finally resigned himself to the fact that the large man wouldn't be budged from his post and Free had eventually fallen asleep on the floor, slumped against the bed.

"…" Michel tried to speak again as his tears subsided, but his voice was still lost somewhere within him. He pulled his face back and tugged at Ken's shirt, looking up at him. _I want a shower; I want to be clean again. I don't want to be dirty anymore_. He wanted desperately to tell Ken this, but the words just wouldn't come out.

"You look like hell, kid." Ken was surprisingly composed, for having had an arm full of crying blond teenager for about twenty minutes. "Why don't we go get you cleaned up?"

Michel bobbed his head in affirmation, giving Free one last look before pulling away from Ken and slowly moving towards the edge of the bed. He wondered fleetingly if he would be able to walk on his own; he wasn't quite sure how well his legs would work, considering how shaky the rest of his body was.

He was about to slide off the bed and make an attempt towards the door when he abruptly turned, crawling back across the mattress and peering over the edge of the bed to look down at Free again. He stared at him, entranced, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled. He leaned over further, gripping the edge of the bed for leverage; he could smell that intoxicating, musky, _safe _smell that was Free's own. Michel wanted to stay there; he wanted to crawl off the bed and curl up with Free and never move.

Instead, he reached behind him, small fingers scrabbling for his favorite afghan. He caught it between thumb and forefinger, dragging it close and pausing momentarily to hug it, burying his face in the fuzzy covering. The plaid flannel made him think of home; of Ireland and all the things he missed about the mother country. That blanket had been one of his first possessions when he arrived at the castle, given to him by Nana to replace the ratty, dirty sheet Free had wrapped him in to spirit him away from his home. It had survived eight years with him, kept him warm when he was cold and comforted him through many difficult nights.

The blanket opened through the air as he shook it out, spreading it over Free and effectively tucking him in. The floor did not look very comfortable, even with its plush shag carpet, and Michel didn't want his friend to be cold.

He reached out a hand, running it through Free's hair. It was soft and silky; Free had such nice hair. _I love you._ It was only the barest of whispers in Michel's mind. He could say it, were his mouth to decide to start working, but it would never come out the way he meant it. _I'm not just some silly child; I really, truly love you…_

Ken was watching from the doorway. Although he had been so close with Omi, Michel was still a bit of a mystery to him. They were, after all, very different kinds of chibis, even though they both had blond hair, wide, innocent eyes and that bouncy, cheerful way about them. Michel was not quite as hard as Omi had been, yet, at other times he seemed almost harder. There were things about Michel though…Mannerisms, little ways about him…That made him sometimes seem rather queer, almost as if his soul was far too old for his tiny, youthful body.

Sometimes, he gave Ken the creeps.

Michel seemed far more human today than Ken had seen him in a long time, though. He wasn't being mechanically cheerful or monotonously quiet. He had been going from emotional extremes –one which seemed forced and one which seemed scarily out of place on that cherubic little face- at an almost dizzyingly quick pace and it had been making Ken nervous. Michel was not supposed to be like this at all; he was supposed to be the vibrant, bright, alive member of the team who gave them all hope that it wasn't too late for their souls. Seeing him like this made Ken afraid that they were all doomed after all.

"Come on, chibi…" The brunet said softly, "Free will still be here once you're cleaned up." He wanted to get out of that room; as homey as it was, there was something creepy about it. It felt almost chilled; it made the hair on the back of Ken's neck rise, giving him that feeling of being watched, though he knew no one was watching him. Maybe it was the crucifix on the wall or the black-framed picture of Michel's long-dead parents or the image of tiny Michel perched on the shoulders of an older boy, his brother, Brandon…Something gave Ken shivers; the room was simply haunted by too many ghosts for his taste.

Michel turned and slowly began his journey back across the bed. Ken watched as his limbs wobbled with each movement. The boy's face was tear-streaked, his hair still a tangled black mess. Those big green eyes had a constant shimmer as if tears were trying to escape, but couldn't seem to make it out. Ken hated to see him like this. It made his heart hurt. But at the same time, it reminded him what they were fighting so hard to protect. The world didn't need another child like Michel.

Once he reached the opposite edge of the bed, Michel twisted around into a sitting position and began easing himself towards the floor. Ken wasn't at all sure the Irish boy would be able to stand. When they had found him crumpled on the floor the night before, it had looked as if someone had slammed him up against the bathroom wall pretty hard and the group consensus was that he probably had a concussion or would at least have a throbbing headache when he awoke.

Sure enough, Michel winced the second he tried to stand and leaned heavily back against the bed, one hand raised to his head. He tried to move, but his knees trembled and a little whimpering sound escaped his throat. Ken darted forward to support him, catching him by the arms and holding him up.

"Easy, kid." He sat Michel back down, giving him a moment to let the world stop spinning beneath his feet, "Aya thinks you got a concussion."

_Wonderful_. Michel heaved a sigh and winced again, feeling very small and helpless. He looked up at Ken, eyes pooling with fresh tears, expression strained, and the older man simply hefted him up into his arms. _How long will it hurt? _He clung to Ken, small fingers wrapped tightly in the fabric of his shirt. _How much longer am I going to hurt and be helpless? When will I be back to normal? And why can't I talk all of a sudden?_

He remained limp as Ken carried him down the hall to the bathroom. There was no point in insisting he could make it down the hall alone; no point in fighting anymore. Besides, he was tired of fighting. He just wanted, for once in his life, to live and be happy and not have to worry or hurt so much.

Ken set Michel down on the closed toilet, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly and turning to start running the bath water. "Free tried to clean you up, but you were like a dead weight when you were unconscious. And shit, he was fuckin' scary last night! He wouldn't let any one else touch you and, I swear, he was out for blood! He was like some kind of wild animal. He wanted to hunt down and kill those bastards who did this to you and-"

He paused at the rustling of fabric, glancing over his shoulder to find Michel slowly removing his pajamas, trying his best to undo the top with shaking fingers, fumbling with the small buttons. The little blond made a frustrated sound, the button he was working on slipping from his fingers, arms coming up in what looked like an attempt to hug himself.

"Do you need help?" Ken took a step back towards him, hesitant. He knew they all had issues with feeling weak and helpless and didn't want Michel to think he saw him as some sort of invalid or something, but seeing the boy struggling when he was obviously having difficulties was too much to bear.

Michel was digging his fingers into his upper arms, bunching up the fabric. He shook his head furiously, vehement in this regard. He didn't want help. He didn't need help. He could damn well unbutton his own shirt.

The older man nodded. "All right." He offered a sort of strained smile, "I'm going to put your sheets in to wash and get Free up, 'cause Aya wants us all to talk after you've been cleaned and fed, okay? Yell if you need anything." He ignored the fact that Michel had yet to utter a word since he woke up and acted as normally as he possibly could, given the circumstances.

He didn't even acknowledge Michel's failure to respond as he left the room.

-----

Half an hour later, Yuki couldn't bring himself to look at Michel when he entered the living room. All of this had been his fault; if he hadn't gotten so wrapped up in Haku, he would have been able to protect Michel from harm. He truly was useless, letting his personal life get in the way of a mission.

Aya had given him the lecture to end all lectures after Michel had been settled safely in bed. "What do you think you were doing? Where the hell were you, Yuki? What was so much more important than the mission? Another girl got kidnapped and whoever beat Michel probably could have _killed_ him. He hasn't been in a right frame of mind recently and you should not have left him alone." It had gone on and on for nearly an hour as Aya admonished Yuki for his failure to perform adequately.

For the first time in his life, Yuki had been the recipient of Free's glare. This was something Yuki had never wanted directed at him; Free's looks could be positively chilling when he wanted them to. Yuki had felt cold fear creep through his veins when those hard, dark eyes were turned upon him.

He had fucked up royally.

Free trailed behind Michel like a shadow, one hand resting protectively on the small blond's shoulder. He loomed over Michel like some sort of sentinel, watchful for any upset that might occur. It was a failure on all of their parts, really; they should have been able to protect Michel better than that. He may have been a trained assassin, may have been lethal with a whip, but he was _so_ small and _so_ young and Free couldn't help feeling as if he had failed Michel in regards to his self-appointed mission of keeping the boy safe from any harm.

Michel was scrubbed clean; his hair once again its normal pale color and hanging in damp curls. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved polo shirt that was far too big. It hung off his slight frame and the cuffs of the sleeves reached his fingertips, giving him the waiflike appearance of a beggar child in somebody else's clothes. He had his plaid blanket clutched to his chest and his face was extremely pale and drawn, which only made the dark circles beneath his eyes look darker.

"Sit." Aya said quietly from where he was perched on the edge of the forest green armchair, "We all need to talk."

Yuki lifted his head as Michel crossed the room slowly, Free trailing in his wake. The American watched his smaller friend climb up onto the couch, curling up with the blanket wrapped tightly around him. He pulled a pillow into his lap and hugged it tightly, looking down at the floor, rather than at every one else. He simply looked so sad and dejected.

Free sat down next to him, silent as usual, waiting for Aya to speak. His large hands were folded in his lap, dark gaze resting on Michel, still watchful of the small boy.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" Aya had never wished to head up a discussion like this. It was way out of his comfort zone, but it needed to be done and he was the team leader. Michel at least deserved an explanation of what had happened after he passed out.

The little blond nodded, then shook his head, then almost nodded again, finally settling on a shrug. He picked at a fingernail, still staring at the shag carpet. _I remember being humiliated beyond belief…Being dragged into the bathroom and nearly violated…Throwing up on Thomas. He hit me and slammed me against the wall and then…Nothing. _

"Yuki, why don't you tell Michel what you told me." It wasn't a suggestion.

Yuki traced a pattern on the couch's armrest with his finger. "I'm sorry, Michel." He sighed, "I got carried away with Haku. He was so easy to talk to and I lost track of the time. We went upstairs to do something on one of the computers and I-" He hung his head, "-completely forgot about you."

Michel remained silent and Yuki continued. "Haku had to leave and I went back to our table. You weren't there anymore and neither was any of your stuff, so I went looking for you. When I found you in the bathroom, it scared the hell out of me –you were crumpled on the floor, covered in puke- and I panicked and called Aya." Yuki knew there was no way he could ever apologize enough to Michel. They had been on a mission and he should have stayed on task. He should have known better and Michel had gotten hurt because he was selfish and didn't put the team before himself.

"We came in to find out what happened." Chloe picked up the story softly, looking sadly at Michel, "You looked vaguely like death warmed over. Our first thought was that the target had tried to take you and you put up a fight, but it didn't make any sense that you had been left behind once unconscious." He sighed softly, "So that didn't seem like a valid explanation. Then Yuki mentioned seeing a couple of your classmates, ones neither of you are particularly fond of. He thought perhaps they may have done it, but you were incognito and they wouldn't have recognized you…"

Michel nodded vigorously. _Yes! Yes; it was them! God; Thomas tried to rape me in the bathroom! He thought I was a girl, but he tried! They didn't know it was me…But when has that ever mattered?_

"Is that a 'yes'?" Aya frowned, "It was your classmates who attacked you?" The frown intensified at the timid nod Michel gave in response. Did this, perhaps, have something to do with Michel's attempted escape from St. Justin's? Had a similar attack occurred that day? It suddenly struck Aya that he knew little about the boys' school experiences, save for their grades. "What did they do to you?"

Michel stared at him for a moment, grey-green eyes wide and frightened. He opened his mouth to say he didn't want to talk about it; didn't want to relive what they had done and tried to do to him, but again no words came out. So he sat there, clutching the pillow tightly, seemingly frozen in place. Free stroked his shoulder soothingly, shooting Aya a glare at his lack of compassion.

"You don't have anything to be ashamed of, chibi." Ken interjected kindly, "You can tell us what happened." He thwapped Aya lightly on the side of the head and received a furious look from the redhead. "You could be a little more understanding, baka! Poor kid had a rough night."

Aya was still glaring at Ken. "Just tell us, Michel. It might be important. One of us may have to go to your school and have a word with the headmaster about this."

Michel shook his head again; _I can't._ His voice was still lost inside somewhere and it didn't seem to want to come out again. He could feel everything he wanted to say trying to escape; every thought pounded against his skull as it tried to spill forth. He could feel the beginnings of a headachy twinge behind his eyes. He closed his eyes and lifted his small hands, pressing the heels against his face. _I can't; I can't; I can't; I can't!_ "No!" He shook his head, face still hidden behind his hands, "No; no; no!" His hands rose, fingers burying themselves in his hair, eyes still squeezed tightly shut, the word still pouring from his lips, even though he hadn't yet realized he was speaking. "NO!"

"_No_ what, Michel?" Free asked softly, brows knit together in concern. He pulled the small blond into a protective hug and was startled to discover he was trembling. Michel tensed against him, shoulders hunching. He looked up, eyes bright with tears and pain, visibly shaking now, and Free could feel his heart constricting painfully within his chest. How had they all failed him so badly? He tugged Michel closer, arms tightening, hands stroking soothingly as he buried his face in blond curls. It didn't matter who was watching or what they thought; Michel needed to be hugged and loved and protected.

The room was suddenly silent, save for Michel's muffled sobs and whispers of "No; I can't." He wanted to say more than that, to tell them what he couldn't do. He couldn't talk about what had happened to him. Not yet, at least. It was all too fresh still, still hurt too much. He clung to Free like a lifeline, face buried in his shirt as he cried. If they knew…If they all only knew…

"Please." It was Chloe who finally broke the silence, "We all want to help you, Michel. It hurts us all to see you so upset. But we don't know how to help fix it if we don't know what's wrong. You don't have to face whatever this is alone."

"I-I'm sorry…" He managed to whisper, hiccupping, "I don't mean to w-worry you all. I'll try harder to-"

"Like hell you will!" Ken cut him off, "It's perfectly fine to let people worry about you, Michel! It means we care about you and if you don't let people care about you, you'll be another Aya." He ignored the glare that was once again fixed on him, "Things can get better now, if you let us help you. Whatever's wrong, we can work on it. If I have to beat the shit outta someone, I will."

At that, Michel managed something between a hiccup and a laugh and burrowed against Free again. "Th-thank you." He murmured, snuffling, "I do appreciate it." A watery smile directed towards Ken crossed his face and he rested his head against Free's chest. "Really…" He continued softly, "I appreciate everything all of you have done for me. I…" It was going to take a lot to get this next part out. What was left of his pride was telling him not to say anything, but he was so tired of struggling to stay afloat. "I thought I could fight this on my own…But I need help…" He whispered, "…I n-need help…"

"We will do our best to help." Chloe said solemnly, offering Michel a hopeful smile, saluting, and the little blond giggled softly.

At the other end of the couch, Yuki slumped in relief. It didn't matter if Michel never forgave him for forgetting about him. That wasn't important any more; all that mattered was that he was going to tell them and they would all be able to help so much better than he could. Yuki knew he never should have kept any secrets for Michel, especially not ones so big as those the two boys had been keeping. He also knew that they could have avoided this entire situation if he had just told some one, but it was a little late for that now.

"If…If I tell you about everything…" Michel got serious again, "Will you all promise to listen and not ask questions until the end?" He twisted around to face them all, settling back against Free, who still had an arm around him. "T'is a long story and I don't want to stop once I've started…"


	13. Chapter 12

Fifteen wasn't really all that different than fourteen.

When he was smaller, Michel had made a big stink over his birthday. He'd always wanted a party and presents and a big cake, no matter what. And his birthdays generally had been elaborate; Nana, KR and later Chloé had always catered to him on his special day. His thirteenth birthday had resulted in the biggest party, but this year's birthday was by far the most important.

This was the birthday which Free was present for, after all.

Yet, with everything that had been going on in the days prior to October twenty-fourth, Michel had been too exhausted to request the usual party. There had been school on his birthday, and work, and he didn't even have the energy to plead for the entire day off, which Aya probably would have given him, were he to ask. His birthday wishes were simple, instead. He'd asked Ken to make his favorite meal from when he was small -ham, cabbage and onions boiled into a sort of bland soup and mashed potatoes- and had wondered after the possibility that he and Free could both have the afternoon off that day, so they could go and pick up his birthday gift when he got home from school.

His birthday gift was something he felt they could all use in their lives. He had always been fond of cats -kittens especially- but had never been allowed to have one at the castle. He'd had a dog then, but KR had worried what would happen to a cat if he were to have one; the castle was too big for such a tiny animal.

Michel wanted something to snuggle. He wanted something to love and cuddle and take care of, since every one else was always taking care of him. Kittens were his favorite and it made sense to have one in the shop; it was called the "Kitten's House," after all. He thought they could use a mascot and he was more than old enough to look after his own pet.

Aya had readily agreed to the idea; he had a weakness for cats, especially if they were exotic ones. The idea had been approved by Krypton, who agreed it would be a good idea, considering everything that had been going on in Michel's life. It had been proven that animals were therapeutic and they all knew the little blond needed something.

So Michel was getting a kitten as his birthday gift.

By some miracle of nature, the twenty-forth dawned bright and sunny. The birthday boy took a moment to stretch, lazing under his comforter and pushing his bangs from his eyes. He didn't feel any older, or any different, but that didn't matter. It was his birthday, he was getting a kitten and there would be ice cream later.

Crawling out of bed, Michel padded over to the window and tugged open the curtains. Bright light filtered into the room, causing his hair to glow golden, and he blinked, rubbing his eyes. Even at seven in the morning, the London streets were busy with people bustling off to work and the occasional sound of a car horn filtered through the air. He lifted the window and shivered when a blast of chilly air entered the room. The bloody fingerprints on the sill had been painted over, but the memory was still there, and he chose to ignore it.

"Good morning, world." He said softly to the street below, "It's my birthday today, so I hope you'll treat me kindly." He hoped he would be lucky enough to have a respite from the teasing and taunting at school; things had been better, but the world would never cease to be a cruel place.

Since that night a week ago, when he had been bashed against a wall and nearly raped, the world had seemed to slow to a crawl. Everything had changed, suddenly, and Michel wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

After he had explained what had happened to him -after he broke down, and cried, and told them everything- Aya had placed a phone call to Krypton at the castle. The older man had been shocked to learn of the abuse of his charge and had driven into town as soon as possible to speak with Michel, and the rest of the team, and the headmaster and teachers at Saint Justin's.

As he dressed for the morning, Michel thought over that encounter.

Nana had given him a hug and told him how sorry she was and how much she admired his courage and bravery. He had replied that he didn't feel very brave and wondered if she knew everything. She would undoubtedly be disappointed if she knew what he did to himself, so when she insisted that he was a strong boy, he didn't bother contradicting her. Nana meant well, after all, and she had always looked out for him. Just because she didn't know, didn't mean she couldn't be kind to him still.

KR had been angry; Michel had never seen him more so. He wanted the name of every boy present in that bathroom and every boy who tried to touch Michel at school. The blond hadn't been sure what to do -he didn't know every one's name- and had gotten flustered and cried more. Free had glared at the older blond at this point, moving closer to Michel and putting an arm around him protectively.

"Don't get them in trouble…" The small blond had whispered from where he was nestled at Free's side. "Please; don't. That will only make it worse." He had been terrified of what Thomas and his cronies would do when they found out he had squealed on them.

"They can't get away with this, Michel." Krypton had told him gently, "Something needs to be done."

"No; no; no!" He had shaken his head, curls bouncing, and buried his face in Free's chest. Strong hands stroked his back as the boy tried not to imagine the torture he would face after the other boys had been scolded accordingly. "I don't want them to hurt me any more."

"If nothing gets done about it, they probably will."

"If you do something, they'll know I told and that will make it worse." Michel could be stubborn and knew he was, but it had been a long time since KR went to school and it had been a long time since he had any contact with schoolyard bullies.

In the end, it had happened anyway.

The Tuesday after the attack at the Autumn Café, Krypton, Nana and Michel had met with the headmaster.

Having been kept home from school that day and the previous one, Michel had dressed in his best slacks and sweater. He'd combed his hair with a heavy heart, dreading this trip and wishing it didn't have to happen. Why did everything have to be so difficult? If KR had just left it alone, life could have resumed as normal.

James Bradshaw, the headmaster, had ushered them into his office and told them to please sit down. As Michel lowered himself into the chair provided and glanced around the spacious chamber, he felt very small. Bradshaw was a large man, both in height and girth, and -not known particularly for his fairness or sense of justice- he frightened the boy. Nana seated herself primly on one side of him, KR on the other, and they had both looked so cool and composed; as if they knew what to expect and knew the results of the meeting already.

"Mr. Bradshaw," Krypton had begun, "I chose this school for Michel because of its fine reputation as both an institution of learning and a place where boys learned good morals and ethics. It has come to my attention that…"

Staring at the potted plant on Bradshaw's desk, Michel had managed to tune out most of the meeting. He hadn't particularly wanted to relive his recent experiences, or go on display in front of some one he didn't know, but he found himself flatly telling the story, emotionlessly, several times, confirming facts and correcting discrepancies in KR's retelling of the events. It had been hard, but he didn't cry, just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests of the chair so tightly that his knuckles were white, words that didn't sound like they were being spoken in his own voice coming from his mouth.

He spoke of the beginning, when they had teased him about being Irish and about how pretty he was. How it moved on to calling him all those horrible words associated with homosexuality. The things carved on his desk, scrawled on the bathroom stalls and written on his locker. The groping. The touching. The attempts to jerk him off and "prove he liked it." Everything right up to the Autumn Café; they all knew there was no way he could explain that. What reason would he have for being dressed as a girl?

Bradshaw had been surprised, to say the least. He hadn't seemed truly concerned, but he had been surprised. He'd never heard of such a thing happening in his school, and would look into it, which seemed to placate Krypton and Nana.

Michel knew little would change, though. As influential as KR was, Thomas and his pals came from prominent families and there was no way they would be punished or kicked out or reprimanded at all. Perhaps they would be wary for a while, and not bother him as much. Perhaps it would be worse. He wouldn't know for certain until time, as it inevitably does, moved on.

The days prior to his birthday had been unsettlingly uneventful and Michel was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had returned to school on the Wednesday after the attack, feeling small and even more alone and a bit shaky still. He didn't know what he would do when he encountered Thomas and the other bullies, but he had decided he was no longer going to be afraid of them. Bullies were a fact of life and sooner or later he would have to stand up for himself, even if it were to mean being expelled from school for violent behavior. He didn't like the idea of hurting another person, but he would, if it meant a cessation of the violence against him.

None of the students seemed to pay him any mind upon his less-than-glorious return to school. He was absent often enough for them to have him pegged as a sickly boy suffering from chronic illness and no one gave a two-day absence a second thought. The teachers, however, looked at him with mixed expressions; some looked sympathetic -his English teacher (that was the class he did best in, after all) and his history teacher, a woman who none of the students liked much- and some had seemed even more surly towards him, especially the science and math teachers, who did not feel that he worked up to their standards.

Miss Ebert had called him into her office during his math period, something which he was incredibly thankful for. Though he was not overly fond of Miss Ebert -she was always nosing around where she shouldn't be- Michel liked her enough to be glad she had removed him from his worst class.

"Mr. Bradshaw told us all what happened, Michel." Betsy was dressed in a white pantsuit and -Michel nearly did a double take to make sure he wasn't seeing things- a lavender tie. She leaned back in her desk chair, seemingly searching his face, and he frowned softly. "If there's anything you would like to talk about or anything you need, I'm here for you. Mr. Bradshaw would like for those events to never repeat themselves." She paused, looking contemplative for a minute, "And I am worried about you."

"We're taking care of it, Ma'am." He had replied softly, not bothering to look up at her, "Edward found me a therapist with a very good reputation." As much as he hated the idea of talking to a stranger, Aya had insisted and Krypton agreed with him. There was too much in his life he had attempted to block out, they decided, and it was time he faced it, beginning with his parents' murder and his experiences as a child. He was going to start sessions with Doctor Adelaide Schulz -some one Chloé knew and admired- approximately a week after his birthday and that was that.

"Mr. Ktotznik-" She consulted her file to figure out just who "Edward" was and thusly butchered the pronunciation of his last name, "-found some one? Shouldn't that responsibility lie with Sir Richard? He is your guardian, after all." Betsy raised a brow, still studying Michel. She was curious about the home life of both boys; Yuki spent more than his fair share of time in her office, usually sullen and uncooperative when she tried to speak with him.

"Edward is my guardian when I am not at the castle, Miss Ebert." The blond said softly, "As I have not lived at the castle for several years, Mr. Krypton has entrusted my care with Edward." He hated using Chloé's real name, solely because Chloé hated his real name. But he knew his file would not list Chloé as "Chloé" and that for Betsy Ebert to understand, he would have to refer to his surrogate brother as "Edward."

"I see." She nodded to herself and Michel wondered just what it was she saw.

"Just remember," She continued, "I'm here if you need me. Ms. McKernon is as well; she's been very concerned about you. Believe it or not, Michel, we are here to help you."

He'd heard it a thousand times before and he didn't want to hear it again. He was in far too deep for any one to be of a help now. There was no getting out of Kryptonbrand -and the thought of getting out of it frightened him, anyway- and there was no way this woman or his history teacher or any one else could really help him, no matter how well-meaning they were. "Thank you, Ma'am." He nodded, knowing that was the response she was waiting for, "I'll certainly keep that in mind."

That day had been long, but surprisingly uneventful, as Michel's school days went.

His birthday had been just as tame, and he actually felt rather happy as he and Yuki left the school grounds later that day. Yuki had spent the day looking particularly fierce, as if he was daring every one to try anything with Michel. No one seemed to care one way or the other, however, they mostly just ignored him, as was the new trend. It made Michel wonder what Bradshaw had said to them and if their parents had been informed. Every one knew of Sir Richard Krypton, the beloved wealthy philanthropist, and Michel was fairly certain that they knew of him as well. There was no way Krypton's taking in and raising an orphan from Ireland would have been ignored.

"You had an okay day?" Yuki questioned, "Nobody bothered you?" He half-wished he wasn't a grade ahead of Michel; it would be easier to keep an eye on him if they had the same class schedule. If they had classes together, nobody would have laid a finger on Michel since he started attending the damn school.

"Mostly, I was ignored." Michel was buttoning his jacket, "I seem to be invisible these days."

"It's better than everything else though, right?" Yuki glanced over at him. Sometimes, he was unsure how Michel's mind worked. The blond had forgiven him for disappearing at the café, but Yuki still wasn't sure about a lot of things Michel did or said. He could never predict what the Irish teen would do, or what was on his mind.

"Of course it's better." Michel smiled at him, "I'd much rather be invisible than be beaten up and harassed." What a silly question. Life was so much better when every one ignored him. He still didn't feel safe at school, but he wasn't quite so scared any more.

"You're going to get the cat today, aren't you?" Yuki changed the subject, knowing it was better to avoid school and related topics.

"Aye; Free is taking me to the shelter after I change out of my uniform." The little blond was excited about getting a kitten. He had been asking for one for years and thought he would never actually get one. There was always some reason that a kitten would not be a good idea, always some logical explanation as to why he couldn't have one. But now he had permission and he was going to get one. KR had even told him it would be no problem to get a purebred expensive one, if he so desired, but there was something about giving a stray a home that appealed to Michel. He could almost see himself as the cat, scared and tiny and unsure what would happen next, but suddenly given a wonderful home.

A hint of a smile crossed Yuki's face. "I know you'll pick out a good one." He had fond memories of feeding the strays with Chris back in the City. Chris had had a kind heart and a soft spot for any small, hungry animal, as well as the many homeless people in their neighborhood. Yuki remembered Akagawa chastising Chris over giving his lunch money to the homeless, when he and Alison worked hard to provide them with said money. Chris had been hardened, but gentle at the same time, not at all unlike Michel himself. Maybe that was why he was protective of Michel and why the idea of the kitten seemed like such a perfect, appropriate idea.

Michel grinned at him as he burst through the door of the shop, dashing excitedly off to change. He practically crashed into his bedroom door in his hurry to get in and take off the obnoxious uniform. Kicking off his shoes and yanking his tie off, he hopped on one foot towards his closet, looking for something suitable to wear.

One pair of green corduroys and a brown sweater later, Michel was stuffing his feet into his favorite boots when there was a knock on his door.

He jumped up and flung open the door, -laces still untied- only to find Free smiling down at him in amusement at his half-presentable state. "Are you almost ready to go?" The man asked, "I know this may take you a long time and I do not want us to come home empty handed because the shelter closed for the evening."

Michel nodded. "I'm almost all set. Just need to tie my shoes and find my jacket." He smiled happily, "I'm very excited. I've wanted a kitten for a long time." The fact that Free was taking him to get a kitten made it that much better. He wouldn't have wanted any one else to do it.

A short while later, the duo was walking from the underground to the nearest shelter, in search of the perfect cat. Free knew Michel would be quite choosey in this task and very particular, but also that his small friend would know the perfect cat when he saw it. This excursion had potential to take a long time, or to be relatively short, depending on how quickly they stumble across the cat that was meant for Michel.

The shelter was stuffy and smelled of clay cat litter. Free wrinkled his nose at the scent, feeling sorry for the cats and thinking they deserved better. Michel frowned softly, looking about and taking in the grime and fur everywhere. He knew it was difficult to care for so many cats, especially when there was little money to care for them with, but the poor creatures shouldn't have been cooped up in such a place.

A heavyset woman with thick glasses and a messy ponytail welcomed them in enthusiastically. There were two cats twining around her feet and meowing loudly and she had to toe at them to keep from stepping upon them as she led Michel and Free further into the room. "Is there any sort of cat you're looking for?" She questioned, "We have a large variety."

"Ja…" Free kept a proprietary hand on Michel's shoulder, "Do you currently have any kittens?"

The woman's face brightened. "You're in luck! Usually we don't, since kittens get adopted quickly -every one wants a kitten, after all- but we had a cat give birth recently and the kittens are just now old enough to be adopted." She motioned towards a door, "They're in here…We try to keep them away from the older cats at first, since some of them are fairly wild and we don't want the kittens harmed. If you'll follow me, please…"

Michel bounded after her, Free trailing sedately behind him like a shadow. The kittens and their mother were quartered in a small room with a litter box, some food bowls and some toys scattered around. The mother was a sleek calico; she was curled on a windowsill in the sunlight, watching her offspring carefully. Three kittens frisked about the room, chasing one another and pouncing on things only they could see, pine needle claws drawn in a valiant effort to thwart their invisible enemies.

The little blond squealed at the sight of the kittens and crouched down, trying to entice them to come to him. A black and white spotted one approached him first, sniffing his outstretched fingers and mewling, much to Michel's delight. The other two, a sandy tabby and a smaller calico version of the mother, were still playing; the tabby was chasing its sister, swatting at her little tail. "They're all so cute!" Michel exclaimed, stroking the downy fur of the black and white kitten.

Free noticed the fourth kitten before Michel did. It was grey and striped, almost identical to the sandy brown one frolicking across the floor. But it was curled in a ball on a cushion in the corner, listless, and the tall man watched it for a moment. "That one," He turned to the shelter woman, nodding towards the kitten in question, "It is the runt, ja?"

She nodded. "We're not expecting her to get adopted. People want playful, alert kittens. And if she doesn't get adopted…" The woman sighed, "She may not survive."

Free nodded, looking again at the little ball of fluff in the corner. The kitten looked up at him, blinking beseeching blue eyes at him, as if asking him to please take her home. It made him think back to one of the few memories he held so dear; the memory of little-Michel looking up at him from the bed, eyes wide and frightened. "Michel…" He lightly touched the shoulder of his distracted companion, "There is another kitten."

"Hmm?" The teen looked up from the friendly, playful kittens, green eyes settling on Free's face. "Another one? Where?" He blinked back down at the three kittens butting playfully at his hands and mewing loudly, easily counting again to make sure there were three.

"In the corner." Free gently turned his companion's head in the direction, "She is the runt."

Michel looked over, his fingers still scritching at the ears of the calico. Instantly, he felt his heart twist for the pathetic, ignored ball of grey fur that was settled in the corner. She looked so sad and unloved and he knew instantly this was the kitten for him. "I want that one." Abandoning the other kittens -who protested loudly at suddenly being ignored- he crossed the room and sank down near the little grey kitten. "Do you want a home?" He murmured, stroking a few fingers along her head between her ears, "Do you want some one to love and care for you?"

Free watched fondly as Michel charmed the kitten into sniffing and nuzzling his fingers. She was hesitant and shy at first, and the shelter director looked surprised when Michel rose, the grey kitten snuggled gently in his arms. "I want this one, definitely." He proclaimed, holding the frail body against his chest, where he could feel her rumbling purr. "She needs a good home." He smiled down at the grey bundle in his arms, "Just like I did when I was small."

Free's expression softened. "If that is the one you want, that is the one we are taking." He was almost glad that Michel had seen himself in the kitten; the parallel was perfect.

"She's perfect." Michel said as they waited for the train a short time later, the kitten safely tucked away in a small plastic pet carrier. "She's just the kind of cat I need; one who can grow and change and become stronger with me."

A frightened mew came inside the carrier and Free watched as Michel stooped to comfort his new treasure, sticking narrow fingers through the door for her to sniff and cooing out endearments. "Do you have a name in mind for her?" He asked, curious as to what the little blond would dream up.

"Hope." Michel rose, picking up the carrier as the train roared into the station. He looked up at Free, expression serious and eyes fleetingly full of long-gone innocence. The name had come to him the second he saw her; he needed her, she needed him and they all needed a little bit of hope in their lives. "Her name is Hope."

At that, a real, genuine smile -the kind that was absent from any of their faces far too often- crossed Free's face, giving Michel possibly the best birthday gift he had ever received in his young life.


	14. Epilogue

Sunday was the one day the Kitten's House was consistently closed.

Though this was not done as any sort of religious observation, the Lord's Day was often a day of rest for the occupants of the apartment above the shop. Most missions took place on Fridays and Saturdays, leaving the team exhausted come Sunday. This was the day they most often ordered take-out for dinner; the day they could most often be found lounging in the living room and relaxing.

Michel liked these days, because he didn't have to worry or think about anything. He usually did his homework on Friday afternoons, so that left the rest of the weekend open for drawing with his pastels, digging around in his cache of multicolored beads and creating intricate designs, or playing with Hope, who followed him around the apartment like a shadow. Sometimes, he ventured out on the weekend, visiting various haunts -a local bookstore, the coffee shop around the corner, the park- always dragging Free along with him to explore.

One Sunday afternoon in early December found the little blond putting up Christmas decorations with Ken and Kurumi. Ken loved holidays; they brought out almost a childlike glee in him. Aya had rolled his eyes when Ken had started pestering him about a tree a month before Christmas, but he'd given in after a week of "Please Aya-s" and the tree had been erected that morning.

Ken, wanting Kurumi involved more in the "family's" goings on, had enlisted the girl to aid in the decorating. She had been a little reluctant at first -she hadn't been there long and was still not sure of her place in the household- but seemed to be enjoying herself. Once she got over the initial shyness, she had fit right in with the rest of them, balancing out some of the moodiness and depression with her optimism and cheer.

Michel had volunteered to help, solely because he loved Christmas. He loved everything about it; it was by far his favorite holiday. Every one was a little bit nicer and a little more thoughtful, after all, and the air just hummed with good vibrations. Though October's unpleasantness was still recent in the back of his mind, he couldn't help feeling rather jubilant. He couldn't help believing in the magic still.

"Oi, chibi, hand me that string of lights." Ken had spent the better half of an hour attempting to get the star straight on the top of the tree. His next task was to get up the lights he'd asked Michel to untangle, so they could get all the ornaments onto the tree.

"Aye!" Michel scrabbled to grab the lights, passing them to Ken. He was eager to get the ornaments on the tree; most of them held sentimental value for him and he loved seeing them up every year.

Kurumi was seated on the floor, untangling hooks and the strings on some of the ornaments. This was a self-appointed task, but one which needed to be completed nonetheless, and she was enjoying herself immensely. Some of the ornaments were so pretty and she knew there must have been a story behind each and every one of them. Bent over the tin of ornaments, her hair kept from falling in her eyes only by a few bobby pins, the young woman pulled out each ornament gently, asking for stories and explanations each time a particular one caught her fancy.

Free was watching; half-listening as Michel launched into the tale of another decoration's origin. The man was seated in his favorite armchair, long legs stretched out in front of him as he read through a book he'd begun prior to all of the recent badness in their lives. He was only semi-conscious of what he was reading, however, as he was watching Michel over the top of the book.

He was proud of his small friend. Even with everything Michel had been through, he had bounced back incredibly. His grades had picked up, he was smiling more and he seemed to be making some progress with his weekly therapy sessions. Free was a little worried that Michel didn't ever speak of what had happened to him, but he supposed the teen just needed time to come to terms with it still, and would open up about it when he was ready.

Free didn't push the blond into talking; it wasn't his style. Michel wasn't to be prompted anyway; he was to be loved and treated with respect, not with the kind of disdain other, more immature teenagers were given. It was no secret that Free revered Michel and held him above all things. In the quiet man's eyes, the Irish boy was everything perfect; the epitome of innocence and heart. All the fine things in the world, anything not smudged…All things that could never wither but can break oh so easily, that's what he was.

He started suddenly, snapped back to the real world by the prick of harmless claws digging into his leg. Hope was climbing towards him and he watched her struggle for a moment before stretching one large hand to scoop her up. She mewled at him, disgruntled, as he plopped her in his lap, butting her head against his hand in search of further acknowledgement.

He set aside the book in favor of petting her and continuing his observation of the decorating. The ornaments were being ceremoniously hung on the tree now, and Free smiled to himself as Michel bickered with Ken about the placement of his treasured ornaments. Some of the life and the spunk had come back into the boy, which pleased every one, and Free was content just watching his small friend, glad that things were back to relative normalcy.

Once everything was completed and acceptable by Michel's standards, he dragged Kurumi out of the room to find every one else so they could show off their hard work. Ken set about packing away the newsprint and tissue paper the decorations had been wrapped in, carted the boxes from the room, then returned to admire their handiwork.

"It looks…nice."

Ken looked over his shoulder at the sound of Free's voice. He had nearly forgotten that the other man was there; Free was just so quiet. "Yeah." The brunet agreed, "It came out pretty awesome. We picked a good tree." He grinned at Free, who blinked beetle-black eyes at him, then sauntered over to the couch, where he flopped down unceremoniously. "Kurumi and Michel had fun."

"Ja." Free was still scratching Hope gently under the chin, dark gaze trailed on Ken. The kitten rubbed against his hand, purring, then moved away and daintily licked a paw to wash her face. He continued to watch Ken, knowing there was still something the other man wanted to say.

"Michel…He seems better now. Happier." Ken brushed his hair from his eyes, looking up at Free from where he was sprawled. "It's almost like he's back to normal. He's a tough kid."

"Ja; he is." Free nodded as Michel came barreling back into the room, Kurumi on his heals. Yuki, Chloé and Aya followed at a more sedate pace, Chloé looking amused, while the other two had expressions on their faces which said the tree could have waited until later.

Free's gaze turned back to Michel as he and Kurumi began chattering excitedly about the tree to the newcomers. Michel was doing so much better now. Ken was right; he was strong. As much at they had tried to beat him down, he had stood tall and refused to be shattered. Though he had come out a little torn, the tears would mend with time, knitting themselves back together at the seams.

"You did well." Chloé was saying as he admired the tree, smiling to himself over some of the ornaments he recognized as significant for various reasons.

_Yes_, Free thought, still watching Michel intently, eyes soft, _you did very well_.

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**AN: I hope every one enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for taking the time to read it! Look for more works following this sometime in the fall.**


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